


At A Disadvantage

by qqueenofhades



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hook and Cora arrive in Storybrooke, Emma Swan is mortified to realize that her misadventures are only beginning. Even worse, she has to trust her least (?) favorite untrustworthy, dashing, eyeliner-loving swashbuckler to survive evil witches, revenge on Rumplestiltskin, ruby slippers, round tables, flying monkeys, merry men, and more. Hook/Emma, AU as of 2x10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deals I've Made

**Author's Note:**

> Yes so I don't even know what this is. I only fell into the OUAT fandom a few weeks ago (and fell hardcore) due to the Hook/Emma ship, and after feverishly watching all the episodes and reading Tumblr and fanfiction and everything else, the plot bunnies attacked me in a killer swarm at 3am this morning. I'm probably going to give priority to my other major ongoing project, The North Remembers, but if I don't get the ball rolling on this, it's never going to leave me alone. I own no characters, scenes, situations, etc; it all belongs to ABC and I am just playing with it while their back is turned. O January, why art thou so far away?
> 
> It is, however, totally my fault if this is terrible.

The only thing darker than the forbidding forest road was the man who waited at the end of it. She knew that, she _knew_ that, and yet she continued to fly down it at a full gallop, skirts streaming out behind her in the night as she bent low over her horse's neck. Branches and twigs whipped at her face, the moon slid in and out behind a gauzy veil of clouds, and somewhere – not close, not far – she could hear a wolf howling. The sound might have made her shiver, but considering the business she was proposing to transact, a wolf was a pitifully small thing in comparison. There were dark tales of a pack of them roaming the woods, a big male and his brothers and his bitch, and she told herself that if she failed, it would not matter if they found her. They could tear her apart. It would be a more merciful fate.

The road bent sharply up ahead, vanishing behind a high outcrop, and Cora hauled on the reins, curbing her spirited filly hard into the turn. Her brown curls tumbled in her eyes, but she didn't dare to let go to push them away; she had never liked or trusted horses or those who liked and trusted them, but she was putting that aside in the urgency of her errand tonight. Therefore, she hurtled the last few hundred feet almost blind, crackling and crashing and otherwise causing an uproar that really should have brought the wolves down on her. But she just managed to glimpse the unholy blue glimmer of magic, dancing and glimmering around the clearing. Nobody, not even beasts, would come here. _Except the one I seek._

Cora, gasping, managed to wrestle the horse to a halt, and remained in the saddle for a few more moments, then slid overboard, knees watery. She smoothed her tousled skirts and threw her head back, attempting to look as confident and devil-may-care as she could, as commanding. She cleared her throat. Now it came to it.

"Dark One," she said, her voice falling eerily flat among the trees. "I summon you."

She waited, tensely alert.

Nothing happened.

Trying to disguise her speeding heartbeat, Cora clenched her fists. "Dark One!" she repeated, louder and more angrily. She didn't have the knife, if she did she might well plunge it into his heart and never have to beg for help for anyone again. _"I summon – "_

"Well, you don't have to shout, dearie," a voice drawled, directly behind her. "I'm right here."

Cora spun around, stifling an outcry just in time. He was indeed standing right there, where a moment ago there'd been nothing but dust and shadows, leaning against a tree and smiling innocently at her – although _innocent_ was the last word that could or should be used to describe him, this demented little gremlin with his filed black teeth and mad, laughing eyes, the dirty hair and tattered leather vest and the unearthly golden sparkle to his skin. But he was more than some strange will-o-the-wisp, a traveler passing by her in the night. He'd come after all. _And now he takes his price._

"Dark One," she said, inclining her head and smiling, as if she was welcoming him to her drawing room and doing so with proper female graces. "I have need of you."

"Usually those who come to me do, dearie." He tittered, a high, manic sound. "It gets rather. . . hmm. . . _boring_ listening to all those tender pleas. O help me, Dark One! O grant me riches, Dark One! O save me from this dreadful dull old man that I hate, Dark One!" He cut off abruptly and took a few mincing steps around her, examining her from every angle. "Is that what you've come to ask me about? A man? Hmm?"

Cora hated that he'd seen through her so easily. "I've come. . . on behalf of my marriage, yes," she was forced to admit. "I have contracted a betrothal with a young man of quality, one Lord Henry Mills. We will be very – "

"Very happy, yes," the Dark One finished. "With many years of happiness and a dozen fat children. I wish you well of it, dearie, but I can't see what it's a thing to do with me. Good evening." He started to retreat back into the trees.

" _Wait!"_ Cora lunged after him. "You didn't let me finish!"

"My time is valuable, dearie. I've none of it to spare to throw rice at your wedding. Good _evening."_ His silhouette was barely distinguishable from the rest of the weird, witchy moonlight.

"I know your name," she gritted out, running after him, making as good time as she could in a long, cumbersome skirt. "You had better not walk away from me. _Rumplestiltskin."_

There was a long, fraught pause. Then he turned back to her. "Had I not?" he said softly, and there was something different in his voice. "Why?"

"Because, as I said, you did not let me finish. Henry is the son of a great and terrible man, a. . ." She hesitated. "A wizard of wonderful power. He is so rich that he lives in a city built entirely of emerald, glass and jewels and gold. He is feared by all, and nobody gets in to see him, ever. Henry is the heir to all that, and I am a. . ."

"A foundling," Rumplestiltskin interrupted, completing her sentence again. He leered at her. "A poor little orphan girl who doesn't know her real parents, taken in and raised by a kindly but skint woodcutter and his wife, a kindly but _lazy_ woodcutter who can't seem to stop having accidents with that enchanted ax of his. Such a shoddy piece of work. I wonder who could have possibly sold it to him. Your dear father will be made half of tin if he keeps this up."

"I'm not a fool, Rumplestiltskin." Cora moved closer. "I know who sold it to him."

The inhuman eyes gazed back at her, wide and unblinking. _"Do_ you, dearie?" The threat in the soft voice was lethal enough to fell a dragon. "Do I recall giving you leave to call me by my name? And what, pray, does this entire woebegone tale have _anything_ to do with your stated purpose for summoning me, namely your wedding?"

"Everything. We are betrothed, but we can't get married, our families will not permit it. And if we don't, I'll be ruined, I'll stay a – "

"Penniless little waif forever?"

" _Would you stop doing that?"_ she hissed.

"Can I help that you wear your ambition so. . . noisily?" Rumplestiltskin tittered again. "So what is it you want? _Twoo Wuv_ to make everything right and prevail against all obstacles _?_ In which case, dearie, you're flat out of luck. As I've told to everyone who ever asks for it, true love is the one potion that cannot be bottled, the one magic that cannot be contrived, and if you were hoping I'd have a drop of it to spare, I'm terribly sorry but no."

He made as if to walk away a third time, then stopped. "Yet as it happens, dearie," he remarked, "I've been wanting a word with this so-called wizard for quite some time. And I notice you haven't said a thing about truly _loving_ this Henry of yours, just desiring his money. That is the sort of honest villainy I can do business with. _Do_ you love him?"

Cora bit her lip. "I want to marry him, yes."

"I said _honest,_ dearie." He snapped his fingers.

"I don't want to live in that miserable little hovel with my foolish oaf of a father and my shrew of a mother, if that's what you mean!" she flared. "So far as I'm concerned, that ax was the best thing that happened to us – maybe he'll soon be made of tin all over and then I won't have to listen to his moaning and groaning any more. They're not even my _real_ parents. I know you can help me. I'll give you anything."

"Anything?" He giggled. "Now we're talking. So, then. You and your dearly beloved Henry wish to become attached in matrimony, but are prevented by the inconsiderate objections of both his great and terrible father and your clumsy half-tin one? Thus also prevented from improving your worldly fortunes?"

"Yes."

"Well then. What a simple, simple matter. If you charm them and steal their hearts, they'd have no choice but to let you two be married."

"But you just said – "

"That true love could not be purchased at any price? I did, didn't I?" The grotesque little man beamed insincerely at her. "And yet, I said nothing about _hearts._ The expression, you see, is meant most literally. You _steal_ them. The hearts. Beating from their very chests. And once you have that person's heart in your control, they have to do anything you wish. Otherwise you _crush –_ "he made an explanatory gesture – "them like so much powder. And they're gone. Done for. Life and death in your hands. That's what you have to do."

Cora was repulsed. " _Crush?"_

"Only if you're angry." Rumplestiltskin chucked her under the chin. " _Very_ angry. Now then, dearie. A bargain. I'll teach you how to do this. Generous soul that I am, overcome at the thought of keeping two young souls from their rightful place with each other. It's not very difficult. All it really takes is steely resolve and a general lack of consciousness, which I can see you possess in the any case. And then a quick _rip,_ and all your problems are solved. Take Henry's father's heart. Take your own father's heart. Their objections to your wedding will abruptly cease. Do with your father's whatsoever you wish, but bring the wizard's here to me. A small favor."

"Done," Cora said immediately. "And I – "

"Ah-ah-ah, dearie. _I_ wasn't quite finished either." He smiled. "In exchange for my teaching you how to take hearts, you'll allow me to. . . pop in on you from time to time? A brief visit only. Out of my own paternal feelings. To see how you're doing. _Eheehee."_

"Yes. You can see me every so often if you like." Cora's mind was already racing ahead. In the life she envisioned, she would indeed see the Dark One regularly, but when _she_ pleased.

"In a looking glass?" He emitted that obnoxious little titter again.

"If you want. Anything." She shrugged impatiently. "Why do you want the wizard's heart?"

"That, dearie, is certainly nothing that I am under any obligation to tell you. But since you are doing me a small service, I daresay I will. This wizard of yours is from a mysterious and peculiar place, and I have a certain interest in following him there. It's. . ." Rumplestiltskin paused for effect. "Nebraska."

Cora frowned. _"Nebraska?_ What on earth is that?"

"Pray you never find out, dearie." Rumplestiltskin quirked his eyebrows. "But I've been searching for a path to that world for a. . . great while. I believe something of great value to me, which was stolen by the fairies, may just have wound up there."

"What?"

"Ah. Now _that_ would be telling. So then. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal." Cora held out her hand, expecting a shake.

Rumplestiltskin glanced at it, glanced at her face, and stood so still that she thought he was about to up and vanish on her again. Then suddenly he darted forward, reached for her, his hand moving almost too fast to be seen, and –

Cora stumbled, retching, gasping, as the worst pain she'd ever known flooded up her bones and folded in on a hot, clenching explosion in her chest. Sparks of magic crackled around her, that or the pain driving her to her knees, as she writhed and thrashed uselessly on the ground before him. Glancing up, shaking, she saw the glowing red sac in his hands, the way his fingers caressed it almost tenderly, and felt the pressure mounting in her throat like a scream. "What. . ." she barely managed to choke. "What are you. . ."

"Just showing you how it's done, dearie." He smirked, holding her own heart above her head. "You know, it's careless. Keeping your heart in your chest like that, when any old ruffian could reach in and pluck it out."

"Give it _back!"_

"I've made you angry now, have I? Good." His obscene little smirk widened. "You'll remember that then, won't you? When it comes time to pull the wizard's heart out, and then your father's. . . you don't like him much, what's one heart? He'll never miss it. And then snap of the fingers, you're married to Henry, and a rich woman for the rest of your days. The deals you made to lift yourself ahead in the world, dearie. The price you're going to pay."

"I know what it is."

"Do you?" Rumplestiltskin reached down and with a twist of his fingers, shoved her heart back into its proper place, where suddenly she could feel it beating again as if nothing had ever happened. "Do you, indeed? Well, then. The bargain's done. I am an open book to you. I'll teach you how to take what you want. Come back tomorrow, and you're my pupil."

"You'll teach me now. I'm not leaving. I won't let you disappear on me."

"Such a lack of trust." Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "And yet, so determined, so noble to take her fate in her own _hands_. Yet it is _me,_ dearie, who still has what you need, and so you'll come back to begin your studies when _I_ say so. Which is tomorrow." He turned to go. "But just one last thing. Far be it from me to dissuade you from your heart's desire of wealth and power – how _unoriginal,_ I was really hoping for better – but don't go blaming me if your newfound wealth and your husband and your precious home in the emerald city turns out to be a good deal more. . . _illusory_ than you dream."

And before Cora could ask him what he meant, get her breath back from his assault, or insist on anything, _any_ answer at all, the Dark One, graceful as a serpent, was gone.


	2. Old Friends

 Killian Jones, scoundrel, scallywag, blackguard, rogue, knave, convict, charlatan, pirate captain, and several other terms of durance vile even less worth repeating, considered himself something of an expert on the female condition. After all, he was the acknowledged connoisseur of them in several worlds over, having collected the wives of worthless men wherever he and the crew stopped to make port – along with their daughters, sisters, maids, matrons, crones, and whores. That, after all, was the customary life of a pirate: pillage a few towns, bury a few treasures, bed a few wenches, drink rum and hell-raise to the tune of the dead man's chest, and make a few extra of those dead men if they were inclined to protest the treatment. Killian didn't bed half as many wenches as he used to, not after Milah, and the one dead man he wanted to make most of all, he hadn't yet. But he was confident that his wait – his very _long_ wait – was nearing its end.

While he couldn't reckon up how much buggering time, exactly, he'd spent away, he thought it was approaching three hundred years. While Neverland had admirably served its purpose in giving him the same unnatural long life as his target, it did run a bit short on the entertainment after a while, not to mention the women. Once you'd been tormented by the damned pixies, ogled at the mermaids in their lagoon before realizing they were all lunatic bints who'd drown you and bite your unmentionables off the instant they had the chance, and accepted that any kiss borrowed from a fetching Indian maid ran a very high risk of being concluded with a tomahawk through the skull, a man was mostly left to shift for himself. None of their provincial charms really appealed to Killian anyway (or at least, so he told the crew) and so in consequence, even his matchless instincts of the fairer sex (sharp as a blade, or rather his hook, and he said so himself) were not quite as keen as they used to be.

In some cases, at least. In others they were quite a bit more attuned. But he hadn't chucked the magic bean into the waters of Lake Nostros, to open up a portal and sail through in fine flaming fettle to bloody Storybrooke, in order to think about her.

Besides, there was another woman at the moment – a raging fury, siren, fatale, or other dangerous creature of your choice – who required his attention, did he propose to get through this adventure with unmentionables, hook, person, and other sundry valuables intact. He snapped shut his spyglass and glanced sidelong at her; it was always a bad idea to take your eyes off Cora for a moment. But the witch was still gazing at the approaching shoreline: the harbor containing a bobbing assortment of fishing boats, the streets, the strange buildings, and the clock tower. The lot of it was currently shrouded in cloud, as Cora's spell had had that effect; it was also supposed to disguise their entrance, as it would otherwise be quite difficult for a three-master such as the _Jolly Roger_ to slip in unnoticed. _But time is already ticking away._ Killian had cause to pay attention to clocks more than almost anyone. He shot another glance at that tower. No. Nothing. Nobody had even bothered to post up a lookout. They must have thought they were safe after using up the wardrobe dust. _Deplorable lack of diligence, Mr. Smee._

"Storybrooke," the witch repeated. Her mouth twisted. "In the very same wonderful world as Nebraska, indeed, though I understand this part is called New England. I must say, after all this time, I was expecting something. . . grander. Mysterious and peculiar? Hardly."

"Legends are always a few doubloons in debt to the truth," Killian drawled, sauntering over to the rail to watch as his beauty drew into the quay. "Except for mine. I'm worth every penny."

Cora turned that perpetual amused little expression of hers onto him, a sensation like insects crawling up the nether parts. "Yes, Captain. I'm aware of how highly you value yourself, but before we go ashore, we are going to have a small talk. I brought you here with me on the assumption that we both share the same goal: of revenging ourselves upon a certain crocodile and taking certain other advantages that this new world might offer. Correct?"

Killian bared his teeth in something that would have caused a real smile to curl up and die squeaking. "Perfectly."

"And yet, Hook, do not think I failed to notice what happened before we left." The witch looked motherly, almost. Like a mother that would shove you in the oven and eat you with gravy, but it was the thought that counted. "You had multiple opportunities to make an end of Miss Swan. It should have been simplicity incarnate. You are _Captain Hook,_ legend feared across every corner of the world – "he didn't think he was imagining the irony in her voice, which insulted him – "and she is a raw beginner who only recently learned which end of a sword to hold."

"One that isn't the pointy bit. That goes into the other man. Fairly simple."

Cora held up a hand. "Please. That whole business was a mockery. You couldn't have made it more obvious that you had no real interest in harming her, and you even saved the princess' heart, when she was a tool that had concluded her purpose. The Swan girl was right, you know. Soft spot, no matter how you wish to call it a fair fight. So I wish to ask, Hook, and I shall be very interested in the answer. Are your loyalties quite certain?"

Killian was tempted to respond with one of his usual scintillating quips. But ever since he'd wound up in Wonderland and she'd taken that mask off, plunged her hand into his chest and seized hold of his heart beating in her palm, he had known that he was at a distinct disadvantage when dealing with the sorceress. And now that she had gotten him where they had so long wanted to go, he knew as well as she did that she'd have absolutely no qualms in getting rid of him if he too had concluded his purpose. _Unless I do it first._ But you had to be careful what you even thought around Cora.

"I'm standing on this ship, aren't I?" he said at last. "My ship. And you're standing next to me. On my ship. That should serve as fairly reliable proof of my intentions. And tell me why, exactly, I should have killed the Swan girl. She would have been no good to you if she was dead. The savior, the one they're all desperate to protect, and you'd leave her four feet up on the shore of a dried-up lake? I can think of a thousand better uses."

"Indeed you can, Captain." Cora smiled. "Your imagination being both fertile and morbid. Which is why I am placing you in charge of acquiring her for us. Her heart has the potential to be _the_ weapon for our attack against our crocodile. He himself told me once, long ago, that true love is the one power that cannot be contrived, repelled, or withstood, and since I could not remove it from the Swan girl's chest myself, we'll have to find a better way. Again." She rose her brows at him. "I trust to your imagination."

"I'll enjoy it," Hook said savagely. "Though if you're planning to ask me to do it myself, I'm afraid your dear daughter only gave me the capacity to extract _one_ heart in my time. And now that I've used it up on the princess, I'll have to – "

"You've forgotten who you're dealing with already, haven't you?" Cora gave him that look again – half pitying, half condescending. She reached out, and a shimmer of magic encased her fingers as she touched them to Killian's hook, which glowed for a few moments and then faded. "Although I doubt that you'll have any more success than I did if you merely attempt to wrench it out of her. I know you wouldn't have given my protection spell to just _anyone_ to climb the beanstalk and risk my wrath, throw away an alliance and a revenge years in the making. And please. Spare me any platitudes about how you're done with her."

Killian had been opening his mouth to remark on how if Cora thought that, she didn't know him at all, and then shut it sullenly. He didn't like being outwitted, and liked even less to be manipulated, partly because he'd done it so often himself in his time. But the _Jolly Roger_ had almost reached berth, and in a few more moments, it was going to fade away. Keeping their secret for them. Not even Cora could feel confident rushing headlong into battle against the crocodile, he noted grimly. They had to lie low. Stay undercover. Bide their time.

And he had to find the Swan girl. More specifically, her heart.

"As for you?" he asked flippantly. "While I am slaving night and day in pursuit of our deeply devoted common goal, how will you be passing the time?"

Cora gave him that smile almost like his own, that smile to make you feel sorry for any smile ever smiled in any world for the eternity of anywhere. "Catching up with my daughter."

 ----------

Eaten with gravy didn't come close to covering that, Killian decided half an hour later, as he was tramping down some back alley and hoping that no one would catch sight of him before he had time to change his clothes. Cora had supplied him with a wardrobe which she deemed more suitable for the clandestine nature of their work, as Killian's usual sartorial-swashbuckler flair – leather overcoat, sword, scarf, vest, boots, and breeches, accessorized with the occasional dangly bit or oddment of jewelry – would paint a target on his back before he even got his feet wet. Nor was he, under any circumstances, allowed to sport his hook. Cora, if she had her way, would have kept it with her as a hostage, but when Killian pointed out that he certainly wouldn't be able to do any heart-snatching without it, she had grudgingly relented. He'd have to keep it hidden, until the moment came.

Killian looked furtively side from side – there were all sorts of noisy sodding machines on the streets around here, and he had no interest in being run over by one – then darted into the rear of some establishment named, according to its sign, as Clark's Drugstore. There was a necessary in here, and he sidled into the gents', locking the door shut behind him. Luckily, he had no company, and he helped himself to a stall, setting down the sack containing his new clothes and staring at them for a long moment before starting to remove his old ones. Here, in this strange new world, it felt like peeling off his skin.

His mind kept returning, like a tongue at a sore tooth, to the sight of the _Jolly Roger_ vanishing into the fog, dissolving away as if she had never even existed. Killian was perfectly aware that this was necessary to maintain any sort of secrecy about their mission, as well as the fact that it was utterly stupid to care about a ship at all, but he couldn't help it. She had been his boon companion, his only woman for a long time after Milah died, who'd outsailed and outfought krakens, crocodiles, sirens, maelstroms, other pirates, and irate husbands any time he'd asked it of her, any perils of the deep the gods could throw at him. He always felt better with her deck under his feet, her sails to the wind. To be leaving her now. . .

Killian shook his head, annoyed, and returned to the vexing question of the clothes. There were a pair of trousers of rough blue fabric, which Cora, in response to his incredulous question, had called _jeans,_ as well as a checked long-sleeved shirt with buttons, a white shirt without them, stockings, and a pair of stringed menaces called _sneakers._ There was also a jacket and knit woolen cap to ward off the sea breezes, neither of which he expected to find sufficient after experience with _real_ ocean storms, but he could critique the fashion later. Good God, he could do with some rum right now.

Nonetheless, Killian managed (to his own surprise) to more or less insert himself into the new garments, and replace his old clothes in the sack. It was a chore with one hand, but there you had it. He cocked his head, studied himself critically in the mirror (he was always just that bit nervous of them, after various comments Cora had casually made about looking glasses and the things that happened to people who displeased her) and decided that it might just work. He barely even recognized himself. Now actually walking out into the rest of Storybrooke and putting it to the test. . . the Swan girl would know him beyond a doubt if he was careless, along with her bloody mother. And as he'd also told them his real name when they'd "rescued" him from the "ogre" massacre, it might also behoove him to think of an alias .

Killian was still staring into the mirror, attempting to cudgel his genius into action, when there was a knock on the gents' door, which he'd left locked. "'Scuse me? Occupied?"

Startled, he whirled around, picked up the sack, flung it over his shoulder and moved to unlatch it. "Sorry," he said, with a winning smile. He'd had cause to observe that it worked quite well on men and women alike. "All yours."

"Thanks, man." The newcomer hastened past him to one of the porcelain bidets mounted on the wall, where he – to Killian's shock and fascination – proceeded to undo his trousers and perform his business right there in bloody public. Not as if pirates were known for modesty, but still. "Had a long drive."

"That so?" Killian had no idea what a drive was, but if it was a journey, he'd had the same. "New in town? Happens I am myself."

The man reconstituted his trousers with the handy contrivance that Killian thought was called a zipper, and moved to stick his hands into one of the washbasins, which surprisingly produced a stream of water on command. "Yeah. Up from New York, actually. I. . . was meaning to come sooner, but. . . stuff with the feds, making sure they knew what was up, where I was going. . ." He shrugged uncomfortably. "You know."

Killian only half heard him, as he was staring at the washbasin and realizing with a sinking heart just how very much he was going to have to learn about this new world. In his own element, feared pirate captain of the high seas, with wheel in hand and hook and the wind in his face, he was invincible, but here, a little thing like advanced sanitation was going to throw him for a wicket. _At a bloody disadvantage indeed._ Still, damned if he was going to show it. "New York," he said confidently, pronouncing it with every appearance of knowing exactly what it meant. "Of course."

"Yeah." The man exited the necessary, Killian following a few steps behind him. He glanced back, looked surprised, then said, "Nice eyeliner. You go to a lot of concerts?"

"What?"

"Um, never mind. Just trying to be friendly." The man rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "We're both new around here, and you know, from what I heard, this place doesn't get a lot of visitors. I was actually going to. . ." He hesitated again. "Hey, you hungry? I'll buy you a bag of chips or something. Storekeepers get nervous if they see me hanging out around their places. I guess I have the look, still."

_Look?_ Killian scrutinized him critically. No more than of medium height, utterly unremarkable in aspect. Then, with the instincts born of several lifetimes of piracy, he got it. "Ah," he said, smiling. "A thief."

The man stared at him. "How'd you – "

"Always a pleasure to meet a fellow master of the craft." Killian offered his hand.

The man shook his head adamantly. "No, no. I've shaped up, I'm not going to be a crook any more. I want to fix my life, I'm not going to get mixed up with that stuff. I've served my time, I don't want to. . ." Clearly in distress, he cast about, then grabbed two bars wrapped in bright paper off a shelf, reading _Snickers_. "Here. I'll just go pay for these and. . ."

Killian observed this transaction like a hawk, the strange money handed over to the sneezing, diminutive shopkeeper – one Messr. Clark, apparently, who had been giving them both the evil eye – and then the man returned, thrusting one of the Snickers at him. "Hey. You're not going to. . . say anything, are you? I'm cleaned up, I'm a different guy now."

Killian raised one shoulder, then lowered it. "Who would I say anything to?"

"Dunno. Just. . . I really don't want my reputation preceding me, you know? Before I have a chance to find her, and talk to her. I already have so much to explain to her, she's the best thing that ever happened to me and we. . . she wrote once from the jail, she told me there was going to be a kid and accused me of running away and leaving her with it and she was going to give it up for adoption and hoped that served me right. . ." The man shook his head, looking close to tears. "I'm really sorry, man. You don't want to hear my life story."

"No," Killian said, as they exited the shop into the crisp wind of a late New England – was that what Cora had called it? What was old England? – afternoon. "I confess myself fascinated. Who was this elusive temptress of yours? Perhaps I can help you find her."

"She. . . if she didn't change her name or anything. . . Emma. Emma Swan."

Killian felt the Snickers crack in his hand. _"Emma?"_ he repeated involuntarily, half in a snarl, suddenly reassessing every thought he'd had about the use of an alliance with this stumble-witted, ordinary, unmenacing mortal. But by the time his companion had looked at him in alarm, he was once more the picture of solicitous, neighborly concern. "Doesn't ring a bell, sorry. But if I come across her, I'll be sure to think of you. Where will you be staying?"

"I looked it up on the Internet, it said there was a bed and breakfast? Granny's or something?"

"I'll need such a place myself. I'll follow you there. Oh, and." Killian moved sleekly and sharply into the other man's path, just enough to be threatening if the bastard had had the wits to notice it. "I don't believe I caught _your_ name?"

Again, the man looked alarmed, but answered readily enough. "Neal. Neal Cassady."

"Peter," Killian said, deciding on the name on the spur of the moment, a name from somewhere far back in his memory. He smiled. One of those smiles. "Peter Williams."


	3. Thanks for the Memories

Emma Swan had not expected the nightmares.

It was a bit stupid of her. She probably should have. It ran in the family, after all. Her mother, her son, and now her father had all been under a sleeping curse at one point, and as she'd had cause to learn in the Enchanted Forest, that entailed a lot of unpleasant visits to a horrible, hot, burning red room, the space between one world and another. She could still hear her mother's panic, after Snow had met her husband instead of her grandson, torn away before true love's kiss could be given, knowing what that meant. _He's trapped there._

Emma's nightmares weren't like that, at least, but that didn't mean she enjoyed having them any more. As far as she could tell, her journey home through the portal, through the way she'd come the first time, had stirred up some old part of her. _All_ the old parts of her, in fact. And now, like a tidal wave had just crashed through and left everything floating and bobbing around, she was having to pick through a whole crap-ton of garbage that she thought she'd gotten rid of for good – or at least buried too deep to ever see again.

There was no denying that she wasn't who she'd been when she was last in Storybrooke, before she went through Jefferson's hat. Whatever had come over her when Cora had tried (and failed) to rip out her heart, that blast of magic, that realization she'd uttered half-unthinking, that love wasn't weakness – _no, it's strength –_ and the consequences of that statement for everything and every way she'd lived her life in the twenty-eight years she'd had of it to date. The other words that had come out of her like almost a dream, after watching Mary Margaret leap to her defense even at the cost of everything else. _I'm not used to somebody putting me first._

And yet. After all of that, what had she done when she finally got home? Returned to the apartment she used to share with Mary Margaret, except now she was living there by herself, bar a few nights with Henry. David and Mary Margaret had moved into the house he used to share with Kathryn; there was plenty of room and they were more than willing to take Emma in, but she'd decided that living with your parents when you were almost thirty, even if said parents had been missing for nearly all of that time, was just too weird. Especially when your parents were pretty much the same age as you, and to judge from the way they were looking at each other, there was going to be a lot of. . .

Yeah.

Emma wanted to be more available to them. She really did. But once the euphoria of their return wore off, she found that she also really needed her space. Time to reconsider everything. Every choice she'd made. And the fact that now you'd think she'd just bond happily with her family and everything would be hunky dory, the end.

But she couldn't just do that.

It hurt too much.

She'd gotten to see Mary Margaret – Snow – as her true self in the Forest, and now was starting to feel the same sort of deep, gut-clenching love for her mother that she'd felt, totally against her will at first, for her son. But she'd barely had a chance to know David – Prince James – as her father before she and Mary Margaret toppled through the portal. And even if he was doing it with the best intentions and he desperately wanted to have a real relationship with her, right now he was still another guy acting territorial toward her and convinced that he knew what was in her best interest, and Emma had at least been honest enough with herself to admit that she wasn't ready to handle that just yet. She guessed he probably deserved it, at some point, and she wanted to give it to him. He'd served as sheriff in her absence, he'd kept Henry safe, he'd even gone into the red room himself so his grandson wouldn't have to. _That's what family means. That's what love means._ Her own kiss, on Henry's forehead while he was lying lifeless in the hospital – one of her worst memories, and yet one of her best – had been the catalyst to break the curse.

_But Gold set it up that way._

Whoever he was ultimately working for, Emma didn't know. Himself, and only himself, and occasionally himself. What he wanted, why he'd done this, why any of it had happened. . . he'd told her that he wasn't responsible for the magic that blasted Cora away from her, the awakening that she'd had. But he'd crafted the curse and he'd appointed her to be the one to end it, and he'd even left that parchment with her name written over and over in his cell. . . it was awfully hard not to feel like a pawn in some strange, dangerous, sorcerous game far over her head. Her lurking, terrible fear was that no matter all the freedom she'd discovered, all the family she'd brought back, all the battles she'd fought, she had ultimately arrived back where she'd started: caught in the same trap, the same machine, that had held her from the start. Except now she wasn't playing the government and foster care system's game, where at least she'd understood the rules. She was playing Gold's, and he changed them every day, if not more often.

Mary Margaret had told her that they'd sent her away at birth to keep her safe. That if she'd stayed, she'd have been affected by the curse with the rest of them, doomed to forget everything about who and what and where she was.

Her own voice answering, heartbroken. _But at least we would have been together._

A savior who hadn't been saving anyone. It wasn't thanks to her that they were back home. It wasn't thanks to her that they'd escaped Hook and Cora in the showdown at Lake Nostros. Emma was fairly confident about her ability to defend herself, and the fact that she threw an extremely competent right hook (pardon the expression) but she'd had no business winning that battle with a pirate captain who'd been fighting longer (very much longer, she wondered how much exactly) than she'd been alive. He'd gone down a little too easily. Sprawled on his back dramatically. She'd just been relieved at the time, but now she was suspicious. Here was someone else who constantly changed the rules to suit himself.

Not that she understood what in the hell had actually happened. For someone who'd proclaimed himself done with her, it was _just a little fishy_ that he'd then been so eager to make overt sexual innuendos at her when they were facing off. _Normally I'd prefer to do other more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back. . . When I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it._ Yeah. Thanks, Captain Asshole. As if her life just wouldn't be complete until that happened.

He'd said that after he'd saved Aurora's heart. After he'd taken it in the first place, and used it to lead Cora straight to them. After he'd told her that he wouldn't have left her on top of the beanstalk as she had him. Nothing about him made sense. It would be insane to deny that she'd been attracted to him, much as she loathed his insouciance and untrustworthiness and constant flirtation and unnervingly perceptive comments about her past. She was a red-blooded woman, for God's sake, and it had been a long time since Graham. . . whatever had happened with Graham, since he died in her arms on the floor of the sheriff's office. And Captain Hook – seriously, _Captain Hook_? _–_ wasn't exactly hard on the eyes. Far from it. All right? Fine.

But of all the things Emma Swan did not want to think about, Killian Jones topped the list. Worse, he was one of the things she most wanted to get away from. She was done with "bad boys," with hoping someone would change. With making excuses. For not seeing straight. For having loved in the first place.

But then she couldn't get around it what she'd said before.

_Love isn't weakness. It's strength._

Hence, the nightmares.

\---------

Tonight had been particularly bad. She finally gave up on getting back to sleep around 4 AM, and padded down the loft stairs to the kitchen, reassuring herself that she was still safe here and everything had just been a bad dream. No better time to get to work on letting go of the past, right? Make herself a cup of tea and look out at the darkness of a Maine morning before sunrise. Slow down her breathing. Get a hold of herself.

For God's sake, Swan.

Henry wasn't there. He was over at Regina's for the night, and since Emma had learned that Regina had saved both her life and Mary Margaret's by absorbing the lethal green energy from the portal before they came through, she supposed she couldn't really complain. In fact, in the week since she'd gotten back, she'd discovered that contrary to her bitter words in the Enchanted Forest, Regina had been more or less working on their side. Only for Henry's sake, sure, but it was something. Not that Regina should just be forgiven for all the misery she'd caused, the lives she'd ripped apart, the selfishness and destruction that had led her to cast the curse in the first place, the fact that the apple fritter which almost killed Henry had been meant to dispose of her, Emma, instead. _And the curse would have stayed intact forever, because who would have kissed_ me? _I don't have a true love. It was supposed to be me. The savior. And I would have gone under for good because I just wouldn't believe Henry knew anything about the world that I didn't. That there was no such thing as innocence, and certainly no such thing as magic._

That thought gave her the shivers. More than that, it chilled her down to her soul. It stood in the way of every impulse she might have to let bygones be bygones. But as Emma was painfully learning, changing everything about who you were was _hard,_ and Regina did seem to be sincere about it _._ Maybe she could at least give the other woman, her son's other mother, credit for trying.

Maybe.

Gold and Hook weren't the only ones playing a game by their rules. Regina was still the Evil Queen.

And she, Emma Swan, was still running away. And she, Emma Swan, had been just as responsible for Henry eating that apple fritter.

Emma sighed, pushing the half-finished tea across the counter. Most of the reason she was so hot and bothered right now, most of the reason she didn't want to go back to sleep, was because for the first time since she'd lied to Henry that his father was a fireman who died heroically in action, she'd dreamed about Neal last night. About the four-sentence letter that was (please God) the last thing she'd ever say to him, which she had written back in a rage when he'd mailed her the keys to the yellow Bug in jail. _Nice try, you son of a bitch. A car won't ever make up for the fact that you betrayed me AND now you've knocked me up. I'm giving it up for adoption and getting out of here as soon as my sentence is done. Don't you dare to ever contact me again._

So far, at least, he hadn't. But Emma had become a bail bondsperson despite (or because of?) her rap sheet, partly to make sure he never did. And also to keep one foot in that world, she supposed. Because it was familiar, it was comforting, to know the rules of the game, to bust perps and felons and liars, to tell herself that she wasn't one of them anymore. Sometimes she wondered if she should have been honest with her son about his origins, but she always sat down until the thought went away. No kid needed to know that. No kid needed to know what she'd written about him. The letter hadn't said anything about the ambivalence she'd felt in doing it, how she had almost found herself wanting to keep the baby at times, but knew all too well that an eighteen-year-old delinquent, aged out of the foster care system, and keeping food on the table by robbing convenience stores with an FBI-wanted, watch-thief deadbeat, was in no shape to give him his best chance. So she asked for a closed adoption and signed him away. And, for ten years, felt few if any regrets.

She'd lost him. But now she'd found him again, and she intended to stay. Forever.

So why wasn't everything fixed?

Only because she was alone, Emma allowed a choked sound to bubble up from her throat. She leaned forward, head in her hands, fingers running through her tangled, unwashed blonde hair. If there was one thing she hated, it was feeling sorry for herself, and look at her right now, sitting like a coward in her empty apartment, because she couldn't face up to –

At that moment her work cell phone, which had been plugged into the wall to charge, started to buzz.

Emma jerked upright, moment of self-pity forgotten. She shot a glance at the clock: 4:30 AM. If someone was calling the sheriff's office _now,_ it was trouble.

She snatched the phone off the charger. She didn't recognize the incoming number. With trembling fingers, she punched the answer key and tried not to sound how she felt. "Sheriff."

"Yes. Miss Swan." Oh God. It was Gold. "You'll come quickly, please."

"What? What _is_ this? You?" Emma was already getting off her stool, fumbling for her keys, but no way was she driving out at the ass-crack of dawn without an explanation. "What's going on?"

"A fire," Gold said precisely, in his soft Scottish accent. She wondered inanely how he'd _gotten_ a Scottish accent, if everyone had been stuck in Bumfuck, Maine for twenty-eight years, but now was not the time to ponder the question. "One-oh-eight Applewood Drive."

"One-oh-eight Applewood. . ." Emma felt a gigantic ball of ice congealing in her stomach. "Regina. . . that's Regina's house. Gold!" she almost screamed, remembering all too well the _last_ mysterious fire on Regina's property, in that case City Hall, which the pawnbroker had had something bad to do with. "What have you done – oh my God, _Henry – "_

"Boy in trouble again?" Gold asked mildly. "I'd recommend a beeper."

"Shut up." Emma was already shouldering into her leather jacket, stuffing her feet into her boots; she was still wearing her flannel pajamas, but too bad. She knotted her hair into a slapdash ponytail and seized the keys off the hook. "I'm on my way. Are you there?"

"Yes," Gold said. "I am. Hurry." With that, he hung up.

"Bastard," Emma muttered, tearing open the front door of the apartment and pounding down the stairs, staggering out into the chilly predawn. She sprinted across the street, unlocked the Bug, and threw herself behind the wheel, laying a streak of molten rubber as she floored it down the road. Her heart was in her throat, she felt as if she'd been launched out of a cannon. _Great way to begin the day. Especially after that damn night._

She drove the fifteen minutes it should have taken to Regina's house in half the time. When she pulled up, she saw the fire department already there; the place was mostly still standing but belching dark smoke, an eerie orange glow against the red dawn. Various dark figures were running around like headless chickens on the lawn. All she wanted was to run in there and look for Henry, but she had a job to do. She couldn't let attachments get the best of her.

Emma sucked a deep breath, then jerked the car door open. "Excuse me! Sheriff!" She dodged through the crowd of onlookers, up to where the fire captain was just supporting a coughing Regina down the front steps. _"What's going on? Where's my – "_

"I'm here, Mom," a voice called, and she looked over, her heart almost dissolving with relief, to see a somewhat soot-stained but otherwise intact Henry in his race car pajamas, waving at her from the protective custody of his grandfather. How had David gotten here so quickly? He _was_ the acting sheriff, but – unless Gold had called him first, or something else –

No time. Emma turned back to Regina, nodding to the fire captain to return to his work; the brigade had the hoses going, the house wouldn't be a total loss, but it wasn't going to be livable for a few months at least. "Regina," she said instead, trying to sound as calm and forceful as possible. "What happened? Did you see anything? Was it – " She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Gold, visible near the side of the house; he was bending down to examine something. Strangely, he'd somehow found the time to dress before hurrying out the door. Unless, of course, he'd never gone to bed. He didn't keep regular hours. Or regular anything. "Was it him?"

Regina shook her head, eyes wild. The normally impeccably composed Evil Queen looked as if she'd barely had time to throw on a bathrobe before running for it. "No," she said, gasping. "No, it wasn't. I saw – at first I thought it was just a bad dream, but I saw – "

Something with a thousand cold tiny feet skittered down Emma's spine. _Bad dream._ She knew a little too much about that, but that still didn't mean –

"Indeed it wasn't." The sound of Gold's voice startled her. He straightened up from whatever he'd been doing, and made his measured way toward them, leaning on his cane. She'd always wondered, as well, why exactly he needed it, but again, her timing was bad. And if he _hadn't_ set the fire, then –

Gold reached them. For once, even he wasn't smiling. He looked between Emma and Regina as if to judge their fortitude for bad news, then opened his hand to reveal something – something battered, blackened, twisted, but still recognizable as a locket with a silver heart. Something that made no sense to Emma, but which clearly did to Regina, to judge from the color she turned. "Gold," she breathed. "No."

"Yes." Gold glanced deliberately between them once more, then uttered a single word that turned Emma's stomach and knees to ice water.

"Cora."


	4. Know Thine Enemy

"But the wardrobe," Emma said uselessly, for about the tenth time. "The wardrobe dust. We used it up, we took the compass, we got into the portal and I'm pretty sure we would know by now if they had climbed out of that well after us." _I thought we were safe,_ was what she really wanted to shout. _I thought this was over._ "I just don't understand how Cora could be here."

Gold and Regina exchanged a look. On pretext of investigating the fire, Emma had removed the three of them to the sheriff's office as quickly as possible; it wasn't a neutral ground, but she wasn't very interested in being neutral right now. David had wanted to come as well, but she had told him to take Henry home. Partly out of concern for her son's safety, and partly out of a (possibly mistaken, she now realized) conviction that she could handle Gold and Regina herself. Besides, there was some small selfish part of her that wanted to show her father that it was fine, this was _her_ job, and he didn't need to hold her hand.

Not to mention, Emma didn't want to worry her mother. Mary Margaret wasn't always the world's most rational human being when the welfare of her family was concerned, and if she heard even a whisper that Cora might somehow have followed them to Storybrooke after all, she'd be strapping on her sword and quiver and heading out to hunt the witch while Emma was still getting her clothes on – she hadn't had time to change, was still decked in her pajamas, leather jacket, and boots. And as for the rest of the town. . . they didn't need to be thrown into a panic, hear that the one person even Regina and Gold feared had dropped in to pay a call. Not until she could find out how this was even possible, or if it might just be one of Gold's demented little power plays.

"Think hard, Miss Swan," the pawnbroker said now, in answer to her earlier question. "Was there anything else you may have seen, any indication that she or her accomplice might have given as to their contingency plans?"

Emma looked suspiciously at him. "How did you know that she had a. . .?"

"You did say we would be able to tell if 'they' had climbed out of that well," Gold pointed out, logically enough. "Implies that even the great Cora isn't working alone."

At that, Regina broke in angrily. "How can she even be back? _You_ told me that the looking glass would work, that it would send her away forever. And then she _didn't,_ she ended up in Wonderland and I had to – "

"Loose lips, dearie," Gold reminded her, with a sidelong glance at Emma. "But that's what happens when people fall through the looking glass, yes. They end up in Wonderland. I did ask if I could _see_ her occasionally. In the deal I made with her." He shrugged.

" _What deal did you make with my mother?"_

"My business," Gold said coolly. "But as it happens, I wanted information on your grandfather. He came from this world, you know. Nebraska. I believed that with him in my power, I could command him to take me here. But the fellow turned out to be a miserable fraud. A charlatan. A little man behind a curtain." His mouth twisted.

"None of which sounds anything like _you,_ of course," Regina snapped.

"I'm insulted, dearie." Gold's tone remained level, but Emma saw the ugly flicker in his eyes. _Oh god, I should have brought David after all._ If these two immortals got to blows, it was going to be a pain in the ass to pull them apart. "I am many things, but a charlatan, no. You may not have noticed, but my curses _work._ And a little man behind a curtain, yes, but for an entirely different purpose."

"Little man behind a. . . wait." Emma stared between them. "Gold, are you seriously telling me that Cora's father was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz?"

"Not _her_ father, no. Her father – her adopted father – was a poor woodsman who ended up, after various axe-related mishaps, mostly made of tin. She took his heart, and he never gave up looking for it, poor thing," Gold added, with unconvincing sympathy. "As for the Wizard, he was her husband's father. Certainly not wonderful, however. As I said, a snake-oil fraud. He didn't really fly home in that balloon when he left the Emerald City. He flew to me. And he failed me."

Emma didn't want to ask what had happened to him as a result. She could guess well enough. Another reminder that while they might be swimming through the ocean side by side, Gold was still a shark. "Oz? Okay. Shyeah, I can see that. If she did get here through the wishing well, that rules out her being the Wicked Witch of the West, since otherwise she would have melted. Wicked Witch of the _East,_ then? Anyone got a house we can drop on her?"

"Very funny, Miss Swan." Gold raised his hands and pretended to applaud, ignoring the dagger of a stare Regina was still throwing into the back of his head. "But we are getting sidetracked. I asked if there was anything about Cora or this unknown accomplice of hers that would lead you to believe they had a secondary plan."

For a moment more, Emma was mystified – and then she wasn't. It crashed into place almost beyond a doubt, spinning a vortex – _a tornado, hah –_ of questions in its wake. It numbed her, making her realize what an idiot, a total utter _idiot,_ she'd been, again. _He didn't go easy on me in that swordfight because of what Aurora said, because he might care for me. It wasn't even Aurora speaking right then, he'd already stolen her heart._ He had an exit already planned.

 _But why not just kill me anyway?_ She and Mary Margaret would never have gotten home if Hook hadn't told them about the compass. If he hadn't given her that enchanted cuff to climb the beanstalk with him, and wanted to come with her. Which was more than a stretch to explain away. _Just so Cora could follow us. . ._ but why go to all that trouble? Why? _Why?_

"Your face seems to indicate we have a potential solution, Miss Swan," Gold commented. "If you please?"

"I. Yeah." Emma moved back around to sit abruptly on her desk, hoping it didn't look as if her knees had given out, because they more or less just had. "He. . . dangled it in my face when we were imprisoned in your old cell. He said it was useless. Dried up, like. . ." Her throat closed. No way was she going to tell the two of them what Killian Jones had said to her, what had passed between them in the giant's lair. How this might still be her fault after all. "But I just thought. My. . . parents told me what Lake Nostros does, how it saves things. And it's. . . kind of. . .possible that he threw it in and it. . . worked."

"Threw in _what,_ Sheriff?"

"A magic bean." Emma felt like someone had just punched her in the chest. "From the beanstalk we climbed. To get the compass. Well, _I_ got the compass. I sort of. . . left him behind."

"Left _who_ behind?" Both of them were staring unblinkingly at her now.

She hesitated, but only fractionally. _He said I should have trusted him, but how could I have? If he went straight back to Cora anyway, I was completely justified in ditching him._ It made her want to cry. Charm in men, especially in criminally good-looking, totally amoral men, was the worst character trait ever, because it blinded you to everything else. Her hand on his shoulder. _There's a good girl._ Him bandaging up the other one, with rum and his mouth. _I'm always a gentleman._ Him catching her when she'd stumbled over that stupid tripline and into his arms, the way he'd gathered her into him with those sea-blue eyes and that dizziness-inducing smile. _It's about bloody time._

Remembering infuriated her more than ever. She'd thought she was past it, immune to all the tricks guys liked to play on you, especially when they were just trying to distract you from what was otherwise plainly obvious before your eyes: that they were a worthless, manipulating sack of dogshit. Trust me? Yeah. Right. _I wanted to, but he was as much a liar as Neal._ Good thing. If _he_ was the one who'd brought Cora here, to her friends, to her parents, her son, her life. . .

That thought turned grief into total rage. He deserved absolutely everything coming his way, and she hoped he got all of it. "Hook," she said. "Captain Hook."

" _Hook?"_ Gold and Regina bellowed in unison, springing off their chairs as if they'd been electrocuted. They then glared at each other and sat back down.

"Yeah." A surge of something, almost giddiness, swept through Emma. "How about you tell me what you know about him, and I'll tell you what I know about him."

Gold took a deep breath. It was rare to see the suave, self-controlled pawnbroker so discommoded, or – no matter the strings he pulled, his deals, his frank description of just good business – the almost frightening hatred in his face. "Yes," he said. "I'll tell you. That man stole my wife from me, my son's mother. Both of them. Both of them together. Betrayed me and dishonored me. If he is here, if he is remotely nearby, I would very much like a word with him."

"I'll be happy to arrange it for you," Emma informed him, seething. Yet even as she spoke, she saw again that tattoo on Killian's arm – _Milah –_ and the uncomfortable conversation that had followed. _For someone who's never been in love, you're quite perceptive, aren't you?_ And her own self-defensive, faltering admission. _Maybe I was_ _. . . once._

That made her even more uncomfortable. Enough so that she coughed and said, "You listen to me, though. That doesn't mean you have the right to just do anything you want. I'm still the sheriff, Gold, and I'm still in charge of the law around here. If you think you can – "

"Those who have to say, 'I'm in charge,' rarely are," the pawnbroker observed. That pleasant smile on his lips, and the almost inhumane hatred in his eyes hadn't changed. _He's not going to listen to a word that comes out of my mouth._ Jesus, she _really_ should have brought David.

"We'll see about that." Emma stared back at him, well aware that this was about more than just the question of what would happen to Hook, if – _oh god_ – he _was_ in Storybrooke with Cora. She didn't want to start blatantly throwing her weight around like some "bad cop" in a Wild Western, but she also didn't want them, for a second, to think that they were still going to be able to get away with splitting the town between their plots, powers, and vendettas, like they had before. On that note, she turned to Regina. "And your story about our friend is?"

Regina pursed her lips, but answered grudgingly. "I found Hook in my castle, in the cell of a certain prisoner. After he'd killed my guards with that hook of his. If he'd had the chance, he would have done the same to her, but I stopped him."

"Well, that's just terribly informative, dearie," Gold remarked. "I told you all what _I_ know, so fair's fair." He smiled again. "Cough up. _Please._ "

Regina grimaced. "I found him inside Belle's prison. He had changed his mind about rescuing her once he discovered she had no interest in hurting _you."_ She flashed that swift, venomous basilisk stare back at Gold, who stared straight ahead almost comically, hands folded like a choirboy. "So he backhanded her unconscious for his trouble. Seems he has an interest in hurting people that you care for, _Rumple_. I do so wonder why that could be. But in any event, there was a. . . flair to him that I admired. There aren't – weren't – many people brave enough to risk that. He was the sort of mercenary that I needed to handle business. So I recruited him to travel down to Wonderland and take care of _my mother."_ She almost spit the last two words.

"But he betrayed you too, I see," Gold remarked. "And took up with her."

"I wouldn't have needed him at all if your spell had done what you promised me!" Small sparks of magic were beginning to explode from Regina's clenched fists, making the air stink of ozone. "But instead, because of that _deal_ you made with her back God knows when, because you taught her how to do magic, rip out hearts, you – "

"I don't generally kill my clients, dearie." Slowly, deliberately, Gold slid one of his hands down the shaft of his cane, as if about to draw a knife. "It's not good business."

"No," Regina said, spots of hectic color burning in her otherwise bloodless face. "You prefer them to stay alive so they always owe you something more. If you think I'll just – "

" _Excuse_ me!" Emma shouted, causing both of them to start once more. "Who's getting sidetracked now? If you want to have your little fight, you can have it _outside,_ because this place is a bitch to keep clean in the first place and I'm _definitely_ not swabbing up blood from the decks on account of you two." _You'd make a good pirate. . . I don't mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team._ She shook her head so hard it almost rattled. "Can we finish what we were here to do in the first place? Gold, can you _swear_ – " she verbally underlined the word, staring hard at him – "that the fire at Regina's house is Cora's fault, _and_ that she's here?"

"Certainly." Gold gazed back at her without apparent perturbation. "That fire wasn't really meant to kill your son and Mayor Mills. Cora's a predator, and she likes very much to play with her food. That fire was only to serve notice that the game was on. Besides, another term of the deal I made with her was the ability to see her when I wanted. By which I mean, I know whether or not she's close, and she is." Anticipating Emma's next question, he added, "No, I can't tell you where exactly. I can't see that myself."

"How about you get to work finding out?" Emma stood up. "You and your little Cora sixth sense, that sounds like a useful skill to have. I'm going home to change and then discuss this with my – with David. If there's anything I need to know. . ."

"You'll be told," Gold assured her, with a tone in his voice that she didn't quite like. It seemed to be implying that she would, indeed. . . _if_ he chose to grant her the information, and if it didn't get in the way of something else he had in mind. "Oh, and dearie?"

Emma gritted her teeth. "Yes?"

She heard Gold get up, make his way across the floor, the tap of his cane, until he stood almost directly behind her, speaking softly into her ear. "Leave Hook to me."

\---------

Like hell she would. Smarmy, sexy, charming, vicious one-hand, no-heart Captain Douchebag had made it personal between them, and Emma Swan wasn't the kind of girl to leave that alone. She wasn't going to let him show up in her world like this – _if he's even here, what if Cora just stole the bean from him and made her own way through –_ Jesus, why was she _worrying_ for the safety of the man who'd just thrown her world into turmoil, threatened Henry and her parents? Show up in her world like this, and get away with. . . the one who'd turned back when she'd called desperately after him, as she hadn't turned back when he'd called desperately after her. . . show up in her world like this, and get away with. . .

She was having a lot of trouble finishing that thought.

Furious with herself, Emma hit the dash of the Bug and screeched around the corner, past Granny's Bed and Breakfast, a whole lot faster than the sedate 30mph that most people drove in Storybrooke. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of two men emerging from the front door and starting down the steps. Nothing special about them. Ordinary clothes. Both with their sweatshirt hoods up, so she hadn't even gotten a decent glimpse of their faces. But for a horrifying, heart-stopping second, she had thought –

 _Strangers don't come to Storybrooke,_ Henry told her, when August had first ridden into town on his motorcycle. And it had turned out, of course, that August was no stranger after all.

With Cora on the loose, and who knew else. . . Emma _was_ the sheriff, she would have been perfectly justified in pulling over and demanding to see their ID. But she was driving the Bug, not the police cruiser, and she was still in her pajamas, her hair messy, without her badge and more importantly, without her gun; she needed to get a new one after the ogre had crushed hers into scrap metal back in the Enchanted Forest. And besides, it wasn't as if she could jump out and arrest them for walking down the street, minding their own business. She needed to talk to her parents, break the news as gently as she could. Make sure Henry was safe.

And it definitely hadn't been who she thought. Hadn't been. Not possible.

Just a bad dream.

It didn't stop her from flooring it the rest of the way home.

\---------

"You've got a queer look on your face, mate," Killian Jones remarked off-handedly (the same as one-handedly, he reckoned) as the noisy yellow machine slowed slightly, then screeched out of sight at redoubled velocity. "Any reason for that?"

"Y-Yeah." Neal Cassady appeared to have been turned to stone. "I. . . that was her."

" _Was_ it?" Killian felt a sudden fervent longing for his spyglass, to whip it out and get a better look at the contraption. But it was distinctive, he felt sure he'd recognize it again, and the knowledge made his heart start to pound; he had to turn away and pretend to be examining Granny's garden. He'd been rooming with the bastard for several days now, and he still hadn't gotten much of anything out of him. Combining the charm of a seasick crocodile, the looks of the south end of a northbound ogre, and the brains of an especially brilliant bridge troll, that was Neal Cassady. Not that Killian's estimation was in the least biased. _What did Swan ever see in him?_

Still, he was useful. Killian had already calculated that if he could steer the two of them into a shock reunion at a disastrously inconvenient moment, Emma was sure to put Cassady up in stocks and fetters. Better yet, chase him out of town with torches and pitchforks; Killian had been on the receiving end of both sorts of treatment more than once in his life, and therefore was extremely eager to see his present companion subjected to it. Cassady would then be eliminated as an obstacle to his – to his revenge, and in her fragile emotional state, Emma might be more reckless, more willing to run risks, not to mention more inclined to cry on the shoulder of a handsome stranger who only wanted to comfort her and dry her tears. It had occurred to Killian that he might be underestimating her, and he'd be a fool to do so, as she'd already bested him thrice. _But I let her, the last time._ He rubbed his cheek. Permitted or not, he did have to admit that she threw a fair punch for a lass.

But still. Even if she was formidable, unpredictable, tough, fearless, sassy, devoted, and up for any adventure, not to mention beautiful – _bloody hell, Jones, priorities –_ she was still a woman, and he knew more about her soft spots than she thought. She'd admitted enough to him, even if half against her will. And with Neal fucking Cassady standing right here. . . Killian knew how _he'd_ feel if Milah had been the one to rat him out and string him up, the way Cassady by his own admission had done to Emma. . . she wasn't going to be able to foresee that. She wasn't going to be able to control her own reaction. She'd want revenge. He should know.

"Oh," he said again, casually. "Well then. That _would_ be a shock. Sympathies, mate. But you can't keep creeping around and ducking whenever she might be looking. You came here to see her, didn't you? You have to take it in your hands. You said you didn't want any. . .whispers floating around." Killian flashed Cassady a smile that was intended to imply that if he wanted, he was in prime position to start some of them. "Do it on your terms. Soon as you can. Won't get any better with waiting."

"Yeah, maybe, but. . . " Cassady was still staring down the road in the direction of Emma's vanished machine. "This is going to sound crazy, but when I turned her in. . . I didn't want to, I got my arm twisted into it. There was this guy, and he. . ."

Cassady trailed off. Just as Killian was wondering if he was actually going to have an original thought, and how much it would hurt if so, the man looked up with a jerk, anger and shame both visible on his face. "Look, he told me that she wasn't normal, and that this place – Storybrooke – wasn't normal either. That there was. . ." He chewed on the word. "Okay. Magic. And I'm starting to think that something. . . something's happening to me too. I've had these dreams every night since I got here. There's something I need to remember, like there's another reason I came here besides finding Emma. And maybe I need to get that straightened out before I go see her. So I can at last tell her who I am."

Now _that_ was unexpected. Killian took a sudden, hard look at his companion, trying to judge if some sort of power lay hidden beneath the surface, something he might need to look out for. If this man _was_ more than what he seemed, it was the best disguise in history. But what he said, smooth as ever, was "Not a surprise, mate. You _want_ to have a good reason for why you left her, want to ride up to her as a knight in shining armor. But that's not how it works."

Cassady glanced over. Up until now he and Killian had been on friendly terms, and Cassady was so grateful to have someone to confess to that he'd gushed information (as mentioned, none of it outstandingly useful) like he'd been given a truth potion, but a definite belligerence entered his tone. "Yeah? And who are you really, _mate?_ Why did you just so happen to come to town at the same time, if this place is what August – I mean, the guy – told me? Who's Emma to you?"

Killian hesitated, glanced away. "No one," he said quietly, allowing a soft, heartbroken edge of emotion to roughen his own voice. "Never even heard the name before you mentioned it. But I do know something about losing a true love, feeling as if you betrayed her, being unable to ever apologize or have back what's gone for good." He pulled up his sleeve, awkwardly with his teeth since he still, of course, wasn't wearing his hook, and showed Cassady the heart tattoo. "I'd give anything to get her back. I just want to help you."

On sight of it, Cassady softened. "Milah, huh? That's pretty. I'm sorry, man. I know you're doing your best. But my nerves are shot. Just feeling like a fugitive again, from this woman that I love. She's here, she's _here,_ and I can't even get close to her."

"You have to face your fears." Killian clapped a brotherly hand on Neal Cassady's shoulder. "Just go talk to her. It'll get worse the longer you put it off. You have to. Right here. Now. Today."

For a few seconds longer, Cassady remained quiet. Then he let out a slow, deep sigh. "Yeah," he said, rubbing his own hand across the back of his eyes. "Yeah, you're right. Today."


	5. Heart to Heart

Mary Margaret was waiting out front when Emma turned into the driveway of her parents' house. Clearly, she'd gotten an advance account of the proceedings from David, because Emma barely had time to yank the Bug's parking brake and twist the key before her mother was rushing toward the car door, almost pulling her out headlong. "Emma! My God, is it true? Are you all right? Did you see anything? What did Gold say? Are we going to – "

"Sheesh!" Emma threw up her hands against the onslaught. "Hold on a second, okay? Where's Henry? I – " She lowered her voice and glanced around, half expecting to see an evil witch lurking under the porch swing. "I don't want to talk about this in front of him."

Mary Margaret was even paler than usual. "So that's it, then? It's true? She's here?"

Emma blew out an unsteady breath. "Yeah. Yeah. And I'm kind of terrified that it's my fault." Her voice, to her mortification, cracked.

"Oh, no," Mary Margaret said, shaking her head. "No, sweetheart, it is not. This is _Cora_ we're talking about, she has powers like we can't imagine. Maybe she found a way to reopen the portal, or. . ." She hesitated, clearly in search of an explanation, any explanation to exonerate her daughter. "Anything could have happened."

"No, I think I know what did." Emma dragged her hand across her eyes, trying to get control of herself. She'd already been back to her apartment and changed into her clothes, though so fast that she still looked as if she'd been on holiday in a wind tunnel. As succinctly as possible, she explained her theory that Hook had used the waters of Lake Nostros to revivify the magic bean, and that he and Cora had come through in such fashion.

When she finished, struggling with her sobs, Mary Margaret was already moving to take her in her arms, an action that still reflexively caught Emma by surprise. But she allowed her head to drop onto her mother's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I should have – "

"You should have what?" Mary Margaret said fiercely, stroking Emma's tangled hair. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were right to leave him chained up on top of that beanstalk, and it's not your fault that he managed to escape. He's a bad man, and you're lucky you were able to see it so quickly. He's looking out for himself, and only himself. The only reason he told us about the compass was because he needed an accomplice to help him get it from the giant. He used you and tried to trick you, and believe me, if I do see him, I'll be giving him a little lesson what happens to people who hurt my family." At that, even in her usual cardigan and flowered blouse, the slight, mild-mannered elementary school teacher looked so much like her warrior princess alter ego that Emma had to stifle a painful laugh. "Trust me."

"I bet you will," Emma said shakily. She wanted to call Mary Margaret _Mom,_ but still couldn't quite get her tongue around the word. "But I should have done something else. . . I should have. . ."

"Done what?" Mary Margaret repeated. Her eyes were very intent. "Do you wish you'd told the giant to kill him?"

"I. . ." Emma started, then shook her head. "No," she admitted. "I don't. I was just. . . the reason the giant spared me was because he thought I was a murderer, and then I showed him that I wasn't, and I. . . with Hook, I mean, it didn't even cross my mind. I just wanted a head start. And I hoped – it was stupid, but I hoped that maybe that he wouldn't. . ." She shook her head again and said raggedly, "I'm a total idiot. I'm sorry."

"No," Mary Margaret answered decisively. "You're not. Leaving aside the question of whether or not he deserved to die, you didn't think of it, you didn't want it, because you're a _good person._ That's what you have to remember. That's what is going to get you through this, get _us_ through this. It's not because you're the savior, not because you're some piece in Gold's chess game, but because _you,_ Emma Swan, are able to make the right choices in the worst circumstances. That's why Cora couldn't take your heart, and why you got us back home. Because you're brave, you're loyal, you're so strong, and you're _good,_ and I love you so much. I can't even tell you how proud I am of you." Her voice cracked too.

At that, Emma's eyes welled up with tears again, but for a different reason. She hugged her mother, and the two women held onto each other tightly. Then they stepped apart, Emma sniffled, and wiped her eyes on her jacket sleeve. Not pulling away when Mary Margaret took her hand, she followed her up the front steps and into the expansive Victorian.

David had been standing at the living room window, watching them, but he turned around when they entered. "I sent Henry out to the back to play," he said quietly. "What are we planning next?"

"Out? By himself?" Emma twisted around, trying to see her son through the picture windows of her parents' dining room. "Is that _okay?"_

"It's all right," David reassured her. "No one's going to come up and steal him out from under our noses. And it's true that we'll have to tell him sooner or later. He was very brave, he would have gone back into the red room, I had to insist. Not to mention," he added wryly, "every time we tell him he can't help, he always finds a way to make it in somehow, and – "

"Yeah," a voice said reprovingly from the kitchen door. "You have to let me help."

Emma, Mary Margaret, and David all whirled around, but none of them, despite their protestations of dismay, were terribly surprised to see Henry standing there, fists planted defiantly on his hips. "Come on," he added. "Please? I've showed you, I've promised, I'm not going to get in the way. What is it? What's going on now? Seriously, Gramps, I was just in Regina's house and it was on _fire._ I _know_ something's funny."

David blinked, as he always did whenever Henry called him that; Emma wasn't the only one who had to get used to new terminology. He shot a glance at his wife and daughter for support, then sighed and made a motion permitting his grandson into the room. Straightaway, however, he added, "Henry, this is very serious. The person who set the fire at Regina's house. . . she isn't anyone to mess around with, ever. If you're going to – "

"I know," Henry interrupted. "Is it Cora?"

All three adults exchanged looks that were equal parts resigned and stupefied. Henry took this as his cue to add, "I know who she is. Regina told me. She said that she would want to hurt me and I couldn't ever go near her, and that she – Regina, I mean – was going to look out for me. It's true, right? She wouldn't lie about that." His lips trembled. "Right?"

David sighed and rumpled a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It's true. Henry, you've done so much for us already, but you have to understand that we don't want you in danger. And if you're putting yourself out there, then – "

"If she's really here, we're _all_ in danger," Henry countered. "At least let me know what's going on. I promise I'll be good and do what you say. _Pleeeeeease?"_

David sighed again. "All right," he told his grandson. "But you have to promise."

"Okay," Henry said happily. "I promise."

\---------

With that settled, the family spent the next hour planning strategy, which only served to make Emma's head hurt (she still hadn't had her coffee) and did not outstandingly reassure her as to their preparedness for an assault that may or may not be coming in the immediate or mid-range future. She saw that David had already brought his sword downstairs, and had leaned it casually against the china cabinet; his eyes kept flicking to it as if he expected a villain with a hatchet to leap through the window. Mary Margaret was certain to have some weaponry as well, but hers was better concealed. Henry, of course, wanted to yak about his book. He thought that maybe, as it had before, a new story would appear, that something would change, or that they'd otherwise get the convenient magical clue that they needed to fall into their laps.

"Look, kid," Emma said. "That would be great, but in the meantime, we have a crazy witch on our hands and we don't know what she's capable of doing, if the fire was all she could manage because her powers aren't as strong in this world or because she's saving up for something really spectacular. Gold says she's here, and there's something weird about a deal he made with Cora in the past, so he knows. But he can't tell where, apparently."

"Well, she would have thought of that," Mary Margaret said, frowning. "Deals with Rumplestiltskin are unbreakable, usually, but he's not all-powerful. There are ways to get around him, outwit him – he tries to make it as impossible as he can, with his clauses and conditions, but it can be done. Cora isn't stupid enough to just waltz in here if she knew he could track her."

"So she's masking her traces?" David asked. "In which case, Gold isn't going to be much use." His jaw set, an expression that Emma, with a sinking heart, recognized all too well. Her father, Prince bloody Charming, was about to put on his heroic hat and do something stupid.

"No." Mary Margaret, apparently having realized the same thing, clutched her husband's hand. "You are not going out by yourself to look for Cora. She's gotten even more powerful than when I knew her as a little girl, and she'd love to have you as a hostage, more than anything. We just found each other again, and I am not, am _not,_ going to lose you again immediately. Please."

David put his arms around his wife and kissed her head – but he didn't, Emma noted, say that he wasn't going to go look for Cora. "I'll protect us all, you know that," was what he promised instead. "And as I understand, it's not only her we need to look out for."

"No," Emma admitted, feeling a knot tighten in her stomach. "And honestly, I'm almost as worried about him as I am about her. David, if you're going to go hunting for anyone, it should be him. You're probably as good with a sword as he is, and. . ." She hesitated. "Gold said he was going after him. There's some seriously bad blood between them, something to do with Gold's – Rumplestiltskin's, I guess – wife. I don't know the whole story, but it's pretty clear that if Gold catches up with him, there's going to be a problem. He told me to stay out of it, but damned – " she shot a guilty look at Henry – "uh, _darned_ if I will."

David looked at her curiously. "You want me to go after him to fight him or to. . . protect him?"

"Go after who?" Henry interjected, confused.

"It's definitely not to protect," Emma said, feeling a hot flush starting to burn up her neck. "I just. . . I'm the sheriff, not Gold, and we all know what he can do if he's allowed to cut loose. Besides," she added, having a sudden brainwave, "he was kind of. . . you know. . . making moves on me. If he's around, he'll try it again, and I thought. . ."

David's eyes narrowed dangerously. He had clearly taken the implication that this no-good desperado had, to compound his other crimes, been attempting (or at least imagining) indecent actions upon his, David Nolan's, only begotten daughter. "I'll get on it."

"Good," Emma said, satisfied. It wasn't going to be any sort of hoax when her father kicked Captain Shitwit's lying, lowdown, disturbingly attractive ass. _No. Forget about that part._ It would give him what he deserved, and keep him out of Gold's hands. Emma had recognized the depraved look in the pawnbroker's eyes. He'd kill Killian Jones if he got the first chance. And she was justified by what her mother had said, about not wanting him dead. She still had no damn clue if she was actually a good person, and thought not more often than she thought so, but she did know that she wasn't a murderer like them, wasn't just going to fling aside anyone and everyone in her path. And then she wondered if part of the reason her parents had sent her away, apart from the hope of keeping her safe, was that so she wouldn't have to face that moment. To look someone in the eyes and choose to take – or spare – their life. To hold their heart in her hands.

"What? Who's making what moves?" Henry insisted, startling her out of her reverie. "On you? Is someone hitting on you?"

Emma gave him a jaded look. "You are too young for this, kid. Trust me. We've got this under control. So how about you do us a favor and stay close for now? You know Cora's going to be going hard after your – your mom." It always stuck in her throat to call Regina that, but it was another uncomfortable name, a fact. "You're safer here."

"That's what she said," Henry agreed. "That it was probably better if I was with Gramma and Gramps for now. But. . ." He still looked worried. "She wants to hurt all of us, doesn't she? Cora. What did we ever do to her?"

Emma knelt in front of him. "Henry. Henry, look at me. The fact is, there are some people in this world who really don't have a good reason for wanting to hurt others. They just do it because they can. Cora's one of those people. She wants to rip our lives apart just because she has the power, and she thinks that gives her the right. But I promise, David and Mary Margaret and me, and. . . and Regina, we're _not_ going to let her hurt you. Believe me?"

Henry cracked a grin. "Yeah. You fooled her once, right?"

"I wish I could say that," Emma muttered, getting to her feet. "Boy, I wish I could."

 ---------

With their plan of action essentially crystallized as "keep a sharp eye out and hope for the best," Emma hugged her family and told them that she needed to get back to the sheriff's office. There had to be a new gun somewhere on the premises – probably stashed in some safe under twenty-eight years' worth of garbage, which Graham had never given her the combination for – but maybe she should try thinking positively instead. Besides, it was the best place to stake out an observation post, and start trying to use her magic consciously. It was definitely a better thing to do than staring out the windows and pacing. She wasn't staying on the sidelines for this one.

Deciding that it was best to look as official as possible, Emma drove the cruiser back to the station, not the Bug. She headed inside and threw her keys on the desk, lowered the blinds, took off her jacket and flexed her hands and arms as if warming up for a sporting event. Then she stared across the room at the jail cell, and imagined Killian Jones incarcerated in it, a satisfying fantasy (she hoped) for target practice.

"Okay, magic," she said out loud. "Abracadabra."

Nothing happened.

Emma scowled and closed her eyes, trying to summon up the feeling that had struck her like lightning when Cora had tried to take her heart. Love, fierce love, and terror alike, bravery without a choice, bravery reacting to the situation – nothing heroic in her estimation, just animal instinct. _Love is weakness. . . no, it's strength._ The power that had thrown the witch away from her, bought her enough time to run to the portal with Mary Margaret and jump in.

Rage. At how Cora could ever dare. Amazement. That she herself could hold her off, with nothing more than herself, Emma Swan, her flawed messy human self. A magic far beyond anything, any dark sorceries, the witch could scheme and conjure and cut throats for.

Emma thought she felt a faint tickling around her fingers, but when she peeled one eye open for a hopeful peek, there was nothing unusual about them. She sighed in aggravation and was steeling herself to try again, when she heard the front door of the sheriff's office open. A man's voice – hesitant, strangely familiar – called, "Scuse me?"

Emma felt her heart starting to pound. Blackness fizzed at her vision, and for a moment, she seriously thought she was going to pass out. _It's not. Not possible, remember._ She found herself clutching the desk for support. _Cora's magic. Playing some kind of trick on my mind._

"Scuse me?" the man said again, voice breaking with hope. "It's. . . me. I'm so sorry, baby, I'm so sorry. I only wanted to find you, after all this time, and ask for – "

He stepped into the light, hands held before him in a peace offering.

With all her throat, lungs, heart, mind, and soul, Emma Swan screamed.

\---------

It was almost two, past the lunch rush and not yet time for the dinner crowd, but Granny's was still fairly busy, people huddled together and discussing the fire at the mayor's house. Leroy and his dwarf gang were among them, concocting assorted plans for discovery of the culprit and/or condign vengeance upon them, but the commerce was brought to a skidding halt when the door jerked open and the white-faced sheriff of Storybrooke staggered in. She didn't stop until she reached the counter, where Ruby was polishing glasses, but turned in surprise. "Emma. . .? Are you. . .?"

"No." Emma barely moved her lips. "No, I am the furthest thing from okay right now. Get me a glass of the strongest stuff you have, and then about four more. Please."

Ruby cocked her head and looked at her friend's daughter with concern. "Emma? Really. You look terrible."

"Kind of how I feel. Please." Emma slid into a stool at the bar, her voice faint. "Please tell me you have something more poisonous than Bud Light. I'm not ruling out drain cleaner."

"Granny's got some of the hard stuff in her private stash. I'll go look for it." Ruby hesitated. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah. If you see any guy asking for me, give him every kind of hell you can possibly raise. I'm talking the full monty." Emma put her head down on the Formica counter and stifled a gut-wrenching sob. "Teeth," she said indistinctly. "Claws."

"It's a few days until wolf time, but. . . yeah, you got it." Still worried, Ruby hurried into the back room, filched the key from what Granny still thought was a brilliant hiding place, and returned to present Emma with her choice of libations. Emma stabbed at one, and Ruby poured her a straight vodka. She didn't intend to let Emma drink herself under the table, nor did she know how much the sheriff could handle (though she doubted she was a lightweight). But it did seem cruel to deprive her right now.

"As you were," Ruby said loudly, seeing the diner's patrons staring. "Nothing to see here. She's as worried about the fire as the rest of us. It's her job."

This was a flimsy cover story, but they did at least have the decency to avert their eyes. Ruby turned back to finish drying the dishes, but was interrupted by Emma thrusting the vodka glass at her. It was already empty.

"I'm serious, Ruby," she whispered. "Another."

\----------

Killian Jones was sitting at his ease on a park bench, trying to conceal his smirk as he watched Neal Cassady proceed through the gesticulations of extreme heartbreak, when a voice behind him said, "Chap looks to be in terrible straits. Terrible."

"Oh, aye," Killian answered automatically. "Love, the bane of every otherwise sane gentleman. The only poison that always strikes true."

There was a moment in which he didn't realize. Then the words, both his own and the other's, struck him, and he jumped up and whirled around, not believing it until he laid eyes on the otherwise sane gentleman behind him, short and doughy and bearded and wearing his ratty clothes and his knitted red cap as always. How _he_ had gotten here, Killian had no notion, but –

Lady Fortune was smiling on him at last, and Hook felt a raffish, brilliant grin of his own stretching his face from ear to ear. Not that this was total good fortune, considering that his first mate had always been just as untrustworthy as any pirate worth his salt, but it _was_ the start. _I could use a few weapons against Cora. Even if they're halfwits._

The man recognized him at the same time, and his jaw dropped. _"Captain?"_

"Ah. You remembered." Hook held out his handless arm as if for a shake, and bared his teeth in another, far more feral smile. "Good form, Mr. Smee. Good form."


	6. In the Nick of Time

"Who _is_ this sad pathetic creature you've attached yourself to?" Cora's azure skirts rustled over the wet grass as she drew closer, in that sinuous gliding bit she did where it looked as if she had no feet. "I told you to catch us a swan, and instead you're amusing yourself by tormenting that useless imbecile. Kill him and be done with it."

The witch was using magic to muffle their voices, but Killian still cast a glance up at the dark window of Granny's bed and breakfast. Somewhere within, Neal Cassady was either sobbing into his pillow or brooding into a large bottle of the yeasty piss these people had the temerity to call beer. "May I take this opportunity to point out," he drawled, "that you are, yet again, underestimating the breadth and depth of my ingenuity. That man, pathetic and imbecilic though he admittedly is, is _also_ our princess's former amour. Their parting was painful and in unfortunate circumstances. Furthermore, said amour, under my influence, went faffing off earlier today to see her, in an attempt to plead forgiveness. It did not go well." He smirked.

"And?" Cora's voice remained cold and level as stone. "This has to do _what_ with our plans? You haven't even paid a call on _your_ former friend, sweet Belle."

"She lives in the crocodile's bloody den. I'm not diving in there until I'm quite sure what I'm doing. You see madam, I am a professional, and thus subtle. Whereas _you,_ setting fire to your daughter's house like that. . . now that was not very subtle at all."

"Are you being _insolent_ with me?" Cora's plucked eyebrows paid a visit to her hairline. "Captain, I regret to inform you, but _subtle_ is precisely the last thing you are being. Very well, let me provide some inspiration. Don't you think that in default of acquiring the Swan girl's heart, it might work equally well for her murdered body to be tragically discovered outside of town. . . with the fatal wound made by _this?"_ She reached under her cloak and held up something, metal gleaming in the moonlight. "The town would unite to condemn her killer. And emotions among all, not merely the unfortunate soul you are playing house with, would run very. . . high."

The night was chill, but Killian felt a deeper cold trickle down his back. "How did you get that?" he asked neutrally, resisting the urge to snatch his hook out of her hand.

"I get what I want." Cora smiled. "So, then. Shall we pursue this course of action instead? Killing her would be _spectacularly_ unsubtle, indeed, but by then it wouldn't matter."

"Offing the Swan girl with my hook and framing me for the crime." Killian grinned fetchingly at Cora, hoping she found it disconcerting. "Why, you terrible old harpy, that sounds almost as if you still don't trust me. Firstly, it's far too excessive a move to make this early in the game, especially since there's no surer way to unite the whole bloody town against you. _You_ may claim that you've nothing to fear, that you could take them on with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back, but that leaves out the fact that it's so much easier to get your enemies to destroy each other, rather than to fight them all yourself. You'll surely recall that we have to face your daughter _and_ our crocodile at least, not to mention the blockheaded but devastatingly valiant Charming and his proficiency with large and pointy objects. There are so many ways to turn them against each other, play on their old resentments, the fact that your daughter cursed the lot of them in the first place, and you'd sacrifice me _and_ Emma for a cause all of Storybrooke will support?" He shook his head. "Bad form. _Very_ bad form."

"That's good, Hook," Cora said approvingly. "You sound so convincing, I almost forgot it's because the entire reason for your objection lies in your unwillingness to harm so much as a blonde hair on our princess's head. _Me and Emma,_ indeed. And if that's the case, _you_ forgot that I won't be the one blamed for it. They'll string you up and set you on fire."

"Unless I tell them everything, of course," Killian parried, more confidently than he felt.

Cora's eyes grew slitted. "In which case, I would be perfectly justified in getting rid of you. Remain this slippery, Captain, and you'll have no one to give you the benefit of the doubt. You _were_ willing to abandon me and go over to the Swan girl, don't deny it, and now – "

"I gave you the princess' heart. I took you through the portal with my bean and on my ship. If anything, _you_ owe _me_ a favor. So, love." Hook stepped closer, until he was looking directly down into her face. "Do you really want to take the risk now, with all these enemies of yours so close? Do you _really_? You know how persuasive I can be, especially when it's my own neck on the line. If you landed me in gaol, I could sing songs like a canary, so that they'd vow to free me and I'd pledge to fight at their side. And if you killed the Swan girl with my hook. . ." He smiled at her again. "I'd mean it."

"So you do care for her." If his threat had rattled her, Cora wouldn't show it.

Hook shrugged carelessly. "She's a damn sight more diverting than the women I've had the misfortune to truck with in the last few centuries, I'll give her that. But more importantly, I just want to be sure that we're not forgetting that this isn't just about _you._ I have just as much power over you as you over me, should I choose to use it." He snapped his teeth. "Love."

"What was that?" Cora's lips pulled back. "Say that again, Captain. A bit louder. I didn't hear."

Killian opened his mouth, all set for a brazen rejoinder –

– then staggered, pain shooting through his chest like he couldn't believe. Worse still than the physical agony was the emotional insult: it was his own hook that Cora had just sunk into his chest, latching it into his heart, as the violet-colored magic crackled and seethed around the metal. He went to a knee, his hand rising in the desire to tear it out. He'd been stabbed before, in a few back-alley swordfights and tavern brawls before he became quite as handy with a blade as he was now, but nothing like this. Worse than when she'd done it in Wonderland, when she'd –

" _Captain?"_

It was the second time that day that Killian had been grateful to hear his first mate's voice – abjectly so, in this case. Cora jerked the hook out of his chest, mercifully without his heart attached, as William Smee hove into view, whacking through the overgrown brambles of Granny's backyard, flushed and panting. "Captain! What happened? Who is she? This can't – "

"Aye," Hook said through gritted teeth. "Me charming virago of a sidekick. We were just disagreeing on that, however. Whether it was her or whether it was me that was doing the kicking. She was inclined to the former, and was arguing most persuasive."

Smee's hand fell belligerently to his side, in search of a sword he wasn't wearing. "Well in that case, witch, you can just sod off!" He reached down and helped Killian up, then clenched his free hand into a fist. "We'll take her at the count of three. One, two – "

"Shut _up."_ Killian snagged him by the collar, nearly launching Smee off his feet. "Bit more complicated than that. Just now, there's more important matters. Did you find her?"

Smee nodded lugubriously. "She's at the diner. Four sheets to the wind, poor lass."

"Who?" Cora disliked being left out of the loop.

Killian, after what she'd just done to him, intended to keep her there. "Who we've been looking for all this time, of course," he said, so virtuously that a whore might have asked for a prayerbook upon merely laying eyes on him. "Well then, Mr. Smee. You know what to do."

A slow smile spread over Smee's face. He had always had a gift for kidnapping defenseless young women. "Aye aye, Cap'n."

\----------

"Emma." Ruby put a hand on the prostrate sheriff's shoulder and tried to pry her off the counter. It was almost midnight, and all the diner's patrons had gone home, except for Emma, still clutching an empty glass. "Emma, come on. Wake up. It's late, and girl, you are _trashed_. Let me walk you home."

It took a few more shakes, but Emma's eyes opened. She stared up at Ruby through a baleful fog of alcohol, then shrugged off her hand and drunkenly got to her feet. "No," she said indistinctly. "It's not that far. I'll be. . . fine."

"Snow would kill me if I let you walk out that door alone right now," Ruby reminded her. "So give me half a second to grab my coat, and I'll – "

She was rewarded by Emma seizing the counter to prop herself upright, and pointing a finger sharply in her face. "No! Neither you or – or _anyone_ needsh – needs to act like – like I am a little girl. . . like I need to be _watched_ all the time, not after what just – what happened – no! Oh God, if you think. . ." Emma reeled sideways. "Sorry, you're not – not _babyshitting_ me tonight. I'm _not scared,_ I'm not – "

"Sweetheart," Ruby said. It sounded strange to call the older woman that, but she had very auntly feelings toward Emma. "You never told me what happened, why you came here falling apart in the first place."

"No, and I'm – _not – going – to."_ It was some other person that was staring at her out of Emma's blue-grey eyes, somebody small and wild and desperate with pain, soused with vodka, out of her mind with fear. "I want to go home and I want to wake up and I don't care if I feel like – like _h-hell,_ this had better be all a bad dream. Now, if you _don't mind,_ I'm going _home."_ She turned.

In an instant, Ruby was out from behind the counter, and had both of Emma's wrists in her hands. The sheriff was wiry, tough, and strong, but Ruby wasn't just a wolf by full moon. "Emma," she said evenly. "Listen to me, this is irresponsible. You have a duty to protect Storybrooke's citizens, and that includes yourself. Your parents – your son – everyone – we're counting on you. I know something happened to make you upset, but – "

"Yeah!" Emma's expression had turned crazed. "Everyone! Everyone needs me! I'll tell you what, you – you and _everyone –_ don't know a _thing about me!_ If you did, you would know why! Cora can't get my heart, I'm not frightened of her, I don't need you! Good – _night!"_

" _Cora. . .?"_ Ruby stared, feeling her own heart seize up. "Emma, what do you. . .?"

Too late. The diner door slammed so hard that the bell rattled and fell, clanking, to the ground.

\----------

The instant she was outside in the frigid night, Emma felt horrible. Near-constant intake of strong alcoholic beverages over the last eight or so hours wasn't any excuse for _that._ Even the horrible shock that had prompted it – she twisted her face, trying to choke down a sob, because she wasn't entirely sure that her liquid medicine wouldn't come up with it – wasn't an excuse. She'd regressed, reacted exactly as angry, screwed-up eighteen-year-old Emma would have, shielded and defended and unwilling to let anyone anywhere near. She was trying to change, she was _trying,_ and she should go right back in there and apologize to Ruby right now and let her give her a ride home.

But then pride flared up. Wouldn't let her come groveling back in. Wouldn't let her admit how much Ruby had seen into her soul, and couldn't breathe a word about _–_ about _him._ If she didn't say anything, she'd have to wake up. Oh God, she had to wake up.

Quite abruptly, a few dozen yards down Main Street, Emma lost her balance, sitting hard on the sidewalk like some late-night wino chucked out of the bar at last call – which, to compound her mortification, was exactly what she was. The sheriff, the savior, and here she was on her ass on cold asphalt at 12 AM in this sleepy New England town, about to start crying and/or throwing up. _Oh, Emma. I thought you were better than this._ Was that her mother's voice, her own, or the voice of the foster care director, unhappily retrieving her from another failed placement? _I thought you wanted to make this work. You're a bad girl. You're going to behave, or else._

With that, with barking, ugly sobs, her entire body shaking, she lost it. _Oh God, oh God, could this be worse, could this be worse?_ He had succeeded, he'd reduced her to a blubbering mess, please could she just sit here and wait for the earth to open up and swallow her –

She was so involved in her emotional apocalypse that at first she didn't notice the figure that had appeared out of the shadows at the end of the street. It would have taken the Rapture or something similar to get her attention right now, but she became more aware of him as he approached. When he was closer, she saw that he was a concerned citizen, a short, dumpy guy in a red knitted hat and denim coveralls. He was curious, defensibly so, as to why one of his elected officials was having an atomic meltdown in public at an ungodly hour, but she still wasn't in any mood to deal with it. She drew up her knees, wishing more fervently than ever that she could turn invisible. _Magic, if you're there, this would be a great time to kick in._

It didn't, of course. He reached her, did that worried face, and stopped. "Ma'am, can I help?"

" _Noooo_." Emma pushed herself to her feet, fast enough that her head started to swim. "I'm – fine." Yeah, he probably had never seen anyone who was less fine, but hell with that. "Just – going home now." She took a step, twisted her ankle, and almost took a facer.

In a blink, he was at her side. "No, ma'am. Let me help."

"Hell, no. I know – what guys do to girls – who look like they need a hand." Emma pushed him aside and wobbled determinedly past him. "You'd better – not mess – with _me."_

She thought she was walking faster than she was. It had been a long time since she'd been this drunk. And then, she felt his hand on her wrist, pulling her toward him.

"Sorry, miss," he said. "No choice."

 _No choice?_ And just what the _hell_ did _that –_

A cloth clapped over her face. She tasted something sickly sweet and chemical up the back of her nose –

And then, nothing.

\----------

The first thing Emma felt was sick. Bile was coagulating in her throat, choking her, making her want to turn to the side and upchuck. She gave a few gurgling, drowning, retching coughs, but nothing actually came up. She was dying, oh God, Ruby and her mother and David and Henry, they were going to kill her anyway, an idiot, she'd been such an idiot, she'd lost it, she'd ruined it for everyone, she was –

– on her own bed?

Of all the outcomes that could possibly follow from being chloroformed by a creepy stranger at midnight while drunk out of her mind, this was the very last one she had expected. Unless it was even worse than she thought, and some pervert had been spying on her since she got back, knew where she lived and was going to shut them in together to do God knew what, oh Jesus her imagination was going to be the death of –

"Feeling better, sweetheart?"

Every inch of Emma's body shut off as if someone had hit the switch, as if she was a kitten and a mother cat had hoisted her by the scruff. She lay utterly motionless on her bed, dazed neurons careening and shrieking through her brain, panicking like someone had hit the fire alarm. Sunlight was driving into her eyes with downright personal malevolence, and she heard a dull thumping from somewhere. Like her heart pounding in her ears, like she was about to faint.

She knew that voice.

 _No_. _I will do anything for this not to be happening._

Barely lifting her head, she muttered, "You."

"Me." It was her imagination (please God let this all be her imagination) but the cocky bastard sounded almost genuinely concerned. She heard him moving closer – _oh god he was in her apartment –_ and felt his shadow fall over her. "Surprised, love?"

"You – " That was too much. She bolted upright, gasped when the nausea hit her, and fell back onto the pillows, mashed with her sweat and drool. It wasn't possible, it was the least possible of all possible things, but Killian Jones, Captain Hook, Captain Insert-The-Insult-Here, was standing over her. He didn't look much like her last sight of him, in his swishy leather pirate getup with his eyeliner and his hook. He was, in fact, dressed in jeans, a jacket, and a slouch hat, and as for the trademark appendage, it had gone somehow absent. But she would have recognized him anywhere, in any world, in any clothes. _Hook._ He was a pirate. A villain. A bad man. He'd been watching her, he'd kidnapped her, and he knew where she lived.

"How long have you been here?" She shrank back.

"Wouldn't you like to know, love? Wouldn't you like to know so much about me?" He sat down on the foot of the bed, as utterly relaxed as if he was dropping in for tea. "But at the moment, you want to thank me."

"I do?" She glanced around in every direction for her phone. If she could just get hold of it for a second – hard to call the sheriff when you _were_ the sheriff, but David would be over here on the double and the things he would do when he got his hands on this –

"Indeed you do," Hook repeated. "Because _that – "_ he pointed with his handless left arm  _–_ "scabrous, villainous, barnacle-encrusted, turd-eating, rum-soaked seadog of a scurvy wretch decided to knock you out and attempt to abduct you when your judgment was somewhat. . . suspect? No, love, no need to apologize. Happens to the best of us after a long night sodding our miseries away. You're just lucky I was around to stop him."

Emma whipped her head around, then stared. Positioned a few feet away, tied wrist and ankle to one of her dining room chairs with one of her washcloths serving as a gag – _oh god he'd been in her bathroom –_ was, indeed, the very same red-capped doughboy who'd attacked her in the street. Seeing her, he let out a pitiful whine, and wriggled energetically in an attempt to free himself, causing the dull thumping noise that she'd heard before. It went, predictably, nowhere.

This was all too much for her. Hook had – _Hook_ had. . . saved her? Taken her home? But why had he brought the attempted crook into _her apartm_ –

"I'm missing my hook, currently," the pirate captain announced, "but there are other sharp things which can serve just as nicely." With a fluid, dexterous motion of his only hand, he produced a knife from somewhere about his person, and laid it elegantly to the miscreant's throat. "Would you have me do to him as he'd have done to you?"

"God, no!" Emma blurted out, horrified. "Are you out of your mind? I don't know how you found me, I don't know what you want, but – " There was so much more she wanted to say, accusations to fling into his face, about how he'd brought Cora here and endangered all their lives –

– yet what if he hadn't?

Why did she want to believe him? Why was she attracted to this. . . this. . .

Her tongue was thick and fuddled. The hangover was killer. She still hadn't caught sight of her phone. She was going to have to think her way out of this one; somehow she didn't imagine he'd let her best him in a fight again. She steadied herself as much as was humanely possible in this moment – which was to say, barely at all – and drew herself up.

"All right, Hook," she said evenly. "I'm not going to pretend I understand any of your moves since the last time we saw each other, or even from the first time we met. But if this little act of kindness is a sign that you want me to trust you, _why?"_

"Oh, who said anything about trust?" Hook gave the knife a turn, and his prisoner whimpered. "I'm in no hurry to get chained up again, love, and I recognize the desire to do so most ardently in your eyes. But now that I'm here, the rules have changed a bit. Hey?" He gave her a smile that would have been flirtatious, if she hadn't been able to count all his teeth.

"You." She looked around for something, anything to use as a weapon. "In the cell, you said you were done with – "

"Cora happened to be standing not five feet away," Hook reminded her. "What else did you think I was going to say? I'm always available to the highest bidder."

"You're despicable."

"Careful, love." He raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't want my hand to slip. Dead man in your apartment? Very uncomfortable to explain away."

"Hook!" Emma felt like charging across the room and slugging him into oblivion, but the odds that she could carry out the former just now, much less the latter, were infinitesimal. _"What do you want?"_

He evaluated her, looking her over deliberately from head to toe, in a way that could have been more suggestive, and more inappropriate, only if he'd dropped trou and started into a Chippendale's dance routine. Then he smiled again. "A little gratitude would make a nice start."

" _Grati –_ "

"This is the – what – third time I've let you off? Fourth? As a pirate, the goal is to get so much that you forget how many, so I'm afraid arithmetic isn't my strong suit. I let you get away from me, I let you get home through the portal, and now I let you get home again. Forgiveness isn't my strong suit either. But as it happens, love, I'm making you a deal. A one-time offer. Let's let bygones be bygones, you properly thank me for everything I've done for you, and I'll tell you everything I know about Cora, and how to defeat her. Savvy?"

Emma stared at him. "Yeah. Pull the other one."

"Not interested?" Hook tipped a shoulder in the masterpiece of a disinterested shrug. "Pity." He started to turn away.

"No!" God _damn_ it, she was going to regret this. "I – just – wait. Wait, all right? Just. . . let's _not_ do anything stupid, although I know that's a special ed class for you, and we can maybe. . . discuss it. You can be the first one to prove your sincerity."

That caught him off guard. Bloody bastard, served him right. "I can?"

"Yes." Emma stiffened her spine, eyes watering. She felt like seven kinds of hell, but no way she was letting on. "You better listen to me. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to go get the cuffs and gun from the station, and then I'm going to come back here and arrest our little friend. If you're still here when I do, we'll talk. If you've done a runner, we're over for good, and I will hunt your ass to every corner of this earth or any other. Got. It?" She stared him down, cold and sharp and dangerous as a vorpal blade. Or what she imagined a vorpal blade would be like. Even with Jefferson around, she'd never actually seen one.

"Aye aye." Hook grinned again. "I would despair if you didn't, darling."

" _Bastard,"_ she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear her. With that, trying desperately to think of anything except what her family was going to say, she swung around and exited.

\----------

"You didn't have to shave me so close, Cap'n," Smee fussed, when the princess had gone. He worked his jaw, with an expression of deeply wounded pathos. "Nor tie the gag so tight, neither."

"You didn't have to hurt her." Hook flashed his most serpentine smile. "I advise not to do so in future."

Smee blinked. "But – kidnap her, you said, and that you'd swoop in and foil – "

"That is neither here nor there. Do I hear you questioning an order, Mr. Smee?" Hook dug the tip of the knife into his first mate's chest, and twisted it just enough to raise a drop of blood. "Is that what that was, Mr. Smee?"

Sweat was starting to stand out on the other pirate's fleshy forehead. "No, Cap'n."

"Good. I would hate to think that crew discipline has gone entirely to pot in my protracted absence." Hook removed the dagger, blew on it, and thrust it back into its sheath. "And before you ask, no, I am not going to untie you. Aside from the fact that I am going to enjoy watching you squirm, you need to be intact when our lovely lass gets back."

Smee blinked, astonished. "What? You're actually negotiating with her? I thought all that was just a – "

"My dear Mr. Smee, you ran into the problem with 'I thought.' " Hook paced a few steps across Emma's carpet, glancing around interestedly at this space so fragrant with her scent, so filled with her things. "In the future, you'll be leaving that to me. But yes. As our favorite witch likes to say. . ." He smiled – achieving, at that moment, a remarkable resemblance to a crocodile himself. "The game is on."


	7. Sine Qua Non

Accelerating down Main Street, still shaking, still hung over, and still hideously displeased that her morning had started this disruptively for the second day in a row, Emma couldn't have felt more conspicuous if she'd been behind the wheel of a clown car with sirens and a big red nose. Since the cruiser was still at the station, having been abandoned there after she ran out, panicking all the way into that horribly ill-advised bender at Granny's that had only deepened her misfortunes, after being knocked out and waking up and seeing of all people _him_ – anyway, after all _that,_ she had to drive the Bug. She had to think about this in stages. Get to the station, pick up the police car and the handcuffs and the gun and all the other accessories that would make it look like she knew what she was doing. Then get back, arrest the schlub, toss him in jail and hope he stayed there, and then –

She let out a groan. No matter how many ways she went about it, her next move always ended up at the same horrible place: trusting Captain Hook. Who was _only_ the first person in her life – well, the first or second – least deserving of it. At least _he –_ she still couldn't think his name – hadn't been so brazen as to tell her he was her only chance of getting out of this. Sure, he'd been brazen enough to walk right into the sheriff's office and tell her to forgive him – _plead_ her to forgive him – but at least he hadn't brought Cora here. Unless he had, unless this was all some sort of sick joke plot and they were all in on it and the _world_ was in on it against her –

Emma was so caught up in her increasing mania that she almost drove right by the sheriff's office. Cursing, she stomped on the brake and hauled the Bug into the parking spot, then got out, slammed the door rather more vehemently than necessary, and hurried up to unlock the station. It was going to feel almost as disorienting as falling through the portal, to go back in there now. That was where she'd been when her life turned upside down, yesterday.

 _I have to get used to it at some point, don't I?_ She twisted the key, stepped in –

– and stared.

The place was a mess. It had been thoroughly, methodically ransacked from top to bottom, chairs overturned, file cabinets gaping, spilling papers everywhere, the cell door swinging open; it reminded her of when she'd been forced to arrest Mary Margaret for Kathryn's supposed murder, discovered that she'd escaped, and then later found her tied up in Jefferson's mansion. _Crazy son of a bitch._ It seemed applicable to everyone in this situation. Oh God.

The odds weren't good that whoever was responsible had stuck around for pleasant conversation, but Emma still wasn't about to step in there sight unseen. She still didn't have the gun – she had been coming back here to retrieve it – and if she had to fight someone right here, right now. . .

"How much worse could this get?" she muttered. "Really." Then, taking a deep breath, yelled, "OKAY! Come out with your hands where I can see them!"

Nobody answered. Of course. She was just wasting time. So she waded into the middle of the destruction, head spinning from side to side as if on a pivot. Geezus, what a mess. She snatched the desk phone off the floor and held it to her ear, but heard nothing. Her lines must have been cut – _were they expecting someone to be here? Did they want to stop anyone from calling the sheriff while an emergency was happening elsewhere?_ Questions and desperation and the resurge of panic whirled in her gut. It wasn't just the stuff that was thrown everywhere, although that was considerable. There were also deep grooves in the walls that almost looked as if they had been made by a. . .

. . . hook.

Apparently, this could get worse. Emma rocked back on her heels. There was no way to tell for sure, it wasn't as if weapons and sharp objects and suchlike were in short supply around here these days. But there was a peculiar, distinctive shape to the slashmarks, carving shallow then curving deep, and if she had been in any doubt, that was when her eyes landed on the hook graffitied on the wall. Smart as a signature. In something that looked an awful lot like blood.

Emma stared at it for a very long moment. Then she jumped up, whirled around, and sprinted across the room to the gun safe. She knelt in front of it, hands shaking as she tried to work the combination – and then she realized that the lock had already been picked. When she threw the door open, she knew what she was going to see. It was empty.

 _He lied to me._ She couldn't get herself together long enough to have a coherent reaction, only betrayal. Was this how he'd been amusing himself while he waited for her to wake up? How did she know that he hadn't planned that oh-so-convenient appearance to save her ass? He must have. It was all too neat. Then he'd come here to brag about his cleverness, revealing the true depth of the trap he'd set. And if so, that meant –

"Hello, dear."

Emma remained motionless just a split second longer, in a final, forlorn hope of waking up. Then she turned around to see the very last person that she wanted to see, sidling across the floor, lips turned up in what was ostensibly a welcoming smile but which couldn't have looked more threatening on a crocodile. The witch looked almost coy, pleased with herself, as she held up the gleaming hook, its point still wet and red. "Killian sent you here, did he?"

"He – you – " Emma's mouth flapped open and shut, uselessly. "Whose blood is that, you evil bitch?"

"Language, dear," the witch said pleasantly. "But as it is, nobody of outstanding importance to you. Do you think I'd ever hurt my grandson? Family's the most important thing to me, as it is to you." She wiped the hook off on her skirt, admired it, then concealed it beneath her cloak. "Just a favor from the sweet young woman who was in such a hurry to get to work at the library this morning."

Emma's stomach clenched. She hadn't had a chance to get to know the new librarian very well, but she'd taken Henry there a few days ago after school, to check out some new books; she thought it was time for him to expand his horizons. The librarian had been a sweet young woman with luxuriant brown curls, named Bella or Belle – yes, Belle. Emma felt even sicker as she recalled the other detail. While she and Henry were absorbed in the children's section, and Henry was eagerly looking for books about rockets, race cars, explosions, and superheroes – she didn't know if it was better or worse than fairy tales – she'd seen, of all people, Gold come through the front door. And he didn't even appear to be there to ruin someone's life. In fact, the way he'd looked at Belle. . . there was no other way to describe it but _smitten._ At the time, Emma had found it so unbelievable that Gold could actually care for someone that she'd chalked it up to one or another of the pawnbroker's information-gathering ploys. But if not. . .

"Oh God," she said. "What did you do with her?"

Cora smiled demurely. "Fear not, my dear. She's perfectly all right, except for that scratch. If you want to retrieve her, you should come to join me on the ship."

" _What ship?"_

"Did I forget to mention it?" The witch feigned surprise. "Our dear captain's ship, of course. What is that name he gave it – the _Jolly Roger?_ I was hoping for something a bit more imaginative, but pirates will be pirates. You see, he believed that I owed him a favor for him bringing me here. I thought it over and agreed that he was correct. So I arranged for him to remove you safely out of the way, as it _would_ have been inconvenient for anyone to call the sheriff while I was doing what had to be done. Belle's aboard the ship, only slightly the worse for wear, and I imagine that quite soon, Gold will realize she is missing."

"And find her – " Oh Jesus tap-dancing Christ on toast, this was bad. Emma was recalling in a rush everything that Gold and Regina had told her during their little tête-à-tête in this very office, right after the fire. That Gold and Hook had an extremely personal enmity due to the latter stealing the former's wife. Emma doubted that was the way it had actually transpired, as it was her opinion that women could make their own choices as they damn well pleased about who they wanted to sleep with and when, but it seemed undeniable that Hook had, in fact, removed an intimate ladyfriend from Rumplestiltskin and it had ended on very bad terms. If Gold put two and two together, set out to hunt for Belle, and realized that to all intents and purposes, he had done it again –

" _Oh God, you horrible bitch –_ "

By the time Emma lunged at her, Cora had already vanished in a whirl of purple smoke, leaving nothing but a whiff of brimstone behind.

\---------

"Far be it from me to impugn your superior and unparalleled timekeeping skills, Cap'n," said the prisoner. "But doesn't it seem that the Swan girl's been gone a bit long?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Smee." Hook turned from where he'd been pacing along the kitchen, curiously examining the multitude of torture implements that people in this world liked to have on hand for cooking. He'd never been much for gourmet, himself – a haunch of meat turned over a tavern fire, a tankard of moderately drinkable ale, and he was a happy man. But that was beside the point. "You've had a thought. How does it feel?"

Smee glowered. "You've had me tied to this ruddy chair for over three hours, that's how it feels. And it seems that she should have been back by now, if she was coming. Unless she's double-crossed you – which you would deserve, by the by – and gone to fetch someone else."

"I would, would I?" Hook said reflectively. "Much as it pains me very heart and soul to admit, Mr. Smee, you are correct."

"I want that in writing, Cap'n."

"Which you can't read anyway?" Killian twitched his shoulders in the stupid bloody jacket he was still wearing. Gods above and hell below, but he missed his usual clothing, and now that Cora had betrayed their presence to the whole sodding town, he was losing any desire to continue to refrain from wearing it. _And my hook. I want my hook._ Walking around one-handed like this, he was a sitting duck. _Not to mention what else the witch must be up to with it._

"In which case," Smee persisted, choosing to ignore Killian's last comment, "you'd be better off freeing me, and we'll go to investigate together. You'll want another man at your side."

"Which would, no doubt, end with a sword in my back. My deepest apologies, William, but as I've still only been reunited with you for a day, and I haven't forgotten the unfortunate incident with the bounty hunters in Tortuga, I'm going on by myself." Killian opened the door, and bowed himself through it. "Sit tight."

"Sit tight?" Smee yelled after him. " _Sit tight?_ Oh, very funny! You're a real jokester, Captain! Bloody jokester! You think the Tortuga bit was bad, I'll never get another – "

The sound of his first mate's voluble ire cut off behind Killian as he reached the bottom of the stairs, slammed the front door open, and pelted into the street. That old seadog's sense on the back of his neck was tingling. The way he'd always known if the customs officers were lying just offshore, if a particularly bad storm was coming up, or if an enemy was only playing dead. And much as he was loathe to admit it, Smee was indeed right. Emma had been gone too long.

Head down, Killian started to trot. The good thing about this pustulant arsehole of a town being as small as it was, it didn't take him long to make it from Emma's apartment back to Granny's bed and breakfast, lope up the porch, open the front door, and tiptoe with exaggerated caution up the stairs. There was no sound from behind Cassady's door, so he must still be the guest of honor at his pity party. That was just fine with Killian. He wasn't currently in a mood to brook interference.

He removed his key from his pocket, unlocked the room door, and stepped inside. It was small, decorated with quilts, teddy bears, antiques, assorted vintage knickknacks that he found hideously ugly and hence not worth stealing. . . and his clothes.

Killian extracted himself in double-quick time from the jeans, sneakers, and jacket. He was not sorry to see the back of any of them, particularly the sneakers, which had been bloody hell to tie with one hand; he was not accustomed to feel like an imbecile while putting on his shoes. Pulling his things from his bag, he dove into them with gusto – the breeches, the red vest, the blouson shirt, the boots, and last but not least, his double-breasted leather coat with its collar, and his sword buckled on its broad belt around his waist. He was himself again at last, for the first time since setting foot in this place.

Killian leaned into the mirror, inspecting the dashing quality of his appearance, the devastating charm of his smile, the darkness of his eyeliner, and the general restoration of his debonair swashbuckling charisma. It was to his satisfaction, and he spun about. Now let anyone get in his way if they wanted, just let –

"Going somewhere?"

Someone had most expeditiously taken him up on that offer, and most assuredly gotten in his way. The least welcome of all potential get-in-the-wayers, in fact. A red-eyed Neal Cassady stood in the doorway, staring at him, in a manner which Killian would be hard-pressed to classify as friendly. It _was_ a familiar look; he'd seen it on the various occasions on which his exit from a fetching female's boudoir had not been entirely as discreet as he wished, and he'd had to fight his way past their offended menfolk. It was so familiar, in fact, that his hand fell automatically to his sword. _Good bloody thing I have it back._ Although it had to be admitted, it was his own vanity what had got him into this minor disadvantage. If he hadn't been so dead-set on going back to fetch his clothes, this unfortunate run-in could have been avoided. But no matter.

"Cassady!" he said jovially. "How wonderful to see you restored to yourself. I'll be sure to talk with you later. Good day." He attempted to shove past him.

Neal Cassady was having none of that. "Like hell you will. What's with the outfit – you some kind of leather daddy? Who _are_ you, really? What have you been doing to me all this time? I don't buy that you have no idea who Emma is. I can't believe I was dumb enough to fall for that in the first place." He took a step forward. "I want some answers, man. _Now!"_

"Alas." Killian showed his teeth. "The answers don't want you. Nobody does, in fact. Least of all Emma, and if you abandoned her so that you couldn't get her back when groveling on your knees, that's _your_ fault. Not mine, not hers. Now get out of my way."

"I don't think so." Cassady crossed his arms. "Not that it's any of your fuckin' business, but as I told you, I never wanted to leave Emma. I was forced to. So why don't you just – "

" _I_ don't think so." Killian's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. "You see, time is of the essence right now, and you are annoying me severely. I've no wish to kill you just at the moment, although I'm certainly not opposed to you wallowing in your misery, but if you care for her as much as you say, you'll let me by."

"I heard that one from the August guy. I'm tired of having to tell Emma I love her by leaving her. So you in your funny clothes and your fairy – "

That was all Killian cared to hear. He reached down and drew his sword with a slithering hiss, enjoying his opponent's shocked expression as it slashed the air. "Oh, good. You know what this is. Well, you can choose which end you'd like to continue your diatribe to, and I have to tell you, I _do not_ care for _your_ face at _all_. Let me provide a _point_ of clarity. Two ends. Choose which one. Sharp?" He laid the tip against Cassady's throat. "Or not? Hey?"

Neal Cassady was a number of things, an idiot chief among them. But even to his idiocy, it seemed, there were limits. He got out of the way.

\---------

Outside, Killian broke into a run. It was still early enough that most of Storybrooke was asleep, and if they weren't, they could be damned. Emma had said she was going to the sheriff's office, unless she'd lied (had she lied? That betrayed both a commendable coolness under pressure and a considerable unscrupulous ingenuity, both of which dangerously intrigued him) so that was the direction that he took. Who knew how much time he'd wasted in that little confrontation with Cassady. Belching bloody gremlin. _All he's good for is to tell me she has a weakness for thieves._

Killian kept up the pace all the way to the station, which he had passed numerous times in the several days he'd been in this world. Not disproportionately, of course. Heaven forfend. But Emma being as important as she was, it made sense that he pay extra attention to where she occupied herself. That was her yellow machine – car, it was supposedly called – parked outside, and yet nothing seemed to be moving inside. Which meant. . .

Killian barely restrained himself from shouting for her. It was good and bloody loud in his head, though. _SWAN!_

He barreled through the door – and stopped short.

He knew the signature touch, he knew from the state of the place, even before he saw the actual mark on the wall. _A hook? In blood? How terribly vulgar._ It made him look like some sort of raving madman, a mindless killer, which despite his manifold and one other flaws he was _not,_ thank you kindly. But as his eyes flicked around the ransacked sheriff's office, his conclusions were inescapable. Piss and hellfire. Cora had actually taken his advice.

Emma Swan was nowhere in sight.

He took a few steps backwards, boots crunching on broken glass. If he was the witch, and he was totally bloody insane, and he'd destroyed the place and got the princess captive, what would he do next? It was all about cleverness for Cora, cleverness and ruthlessness and arrogant confidence and bloodless competence and casual throat-cutting. A set of attributes which more or less described him (though he didn't mind some blood) so he'd always prided himself on more or less being able to keep up with her thoughts. Where would she have gone? Where would she have taken her?

Killian's eyes bolted open as the answer hit him.

"That _bitch_ ," he said aloud. "Filched my hook, then my lass, then my ship?" He almost didn't realize what he'd said, and when he did, reminded himself that Emma was his lass only for the purposes of the current exercise, _i.e._ getting hold of her for revenge upon his crocodile. That was the seven-letter word starting with _r_ and ending with _e_ that he wanted; he hadn't come to Storybrooke for any other purpose. _Revenge._ Not _romance._

That didn't mean he was about to let Cora get away with what she'd just done. The writing was quite literally on the wall. This was about him too. His own survival, and Killian Jones was most vested in his own survival. Had been for three hundred years. And he hadn't made it for so long by tolerating fools, forgetting them, or forgiving them. Or by passing up an advantage, alliance, or cheerful backstabbing. Or by valuing his loyalties very highly.

He was going out there, aye.

But not alone.

\---------

It had been a long, hard night for David and Mary Margaret. Ruby had called them in a panic at midnight, telling them that Emma had vanished from outside the diner, and begging them to kill her immediately for her negligence in looking after their daughter. David had jumped out of bed, belted on his sword, and gone straight downtown in search of Emma, but found no trace. All he could get out of Ruby was that she had arrived in a total conniption around midafternoon, demanded numerous drinks, and refused to tell her what was so wrong. This was a pattern that had kept up well into the evening, at which point Emma had refused her repeated offers of assistance, said various regrettable things to her (Ruby didn't think she'd meant them, really) and done a bunk.

Meanwhile, Mary Margaret had to think fast to come up with some lie to tell Henry, who had been awakened by the commotion and was naturally concerned by it. She'd barely gotten him back to bed by the time David returned at dawn, looking haggard and horrified, to report that he didn't know where their daughter was. He was going to have a cup of coffee, make some phone calls, and then go over to her apartment in search of clues.

They were sitting together in the kitchen, David shoving breakfast down the hatch as fast as he could, when the knock came on their front door. Mary Margaret tensed. They weren't expecting anybody, and her imagination had already supplied her with the kidnapper coming by to deliver a ransom note – or worse, some gruesome body part of Emma. She clutched at David's arm as he knocked his chair over in his haste to stand up. "Please! Be careful!"

"I'm being _extremely_ careful." He disappeared down the hallway.

Mary Margaret cast a despairing look at the top of the stairs. Henry would be awake any moment, and _then_ what were they going to tell him? They couldn't keep this secret if Emma didn't return in the next few hours. And so. . .

It was worrisomely quiet. She got to her feet, stepped out, and opened her mouth to call for her husband –

– Just in time to hear him roar, _"YOU!"_ Just in time to see the man at their door stagger backwards. Just in time to think that wicked right hooks must run in the family –

– And then, speaking of hooks, have a moment of horrible recognition.

" _You,"_ Snow said, numbly at first. Then viciously, as the pirate captain was still rubbing his bruised cheek and looking chagrined. "You _bastard, what_ are you _doing here?"_

"Helping you catch your witch," he said through gritted teeth, "and learning something of from whence your lovely daughter packs her punch. You'll want to trust me on this. Cora has Emma, or she will very shortly. There is no time to waste. We must head for my ship at once."


	8. The Definition of a Clusterfuck

"Killian Jones," said David Nolan.

"Aye."

"That is your name?"

"One of 'em."

"Other alias Captain Hook?"

"Correct."

"And yet. . ." The prince blew on his scraped knuckles, which Killian's face had just had the misfortune to run into. "You have the _gall_ to walk up to my front door with my wife and my grandson in my home, and think that I'm going to do anything else than assume you're up to something involving the threatening of my family and my daughter?"

Killian brightened. "She mentioned me?"

"She and her mother have told me all about you, mentioned that you were making advances on her, and that if I was to see you, I had permission to clean your clock." The bloody deluded dunderhead clenched his fists again, apparently in expectation of doing just that. "I don't know if you think that I was born yesterday, but I am _not_ running out to – "

"Oh, please," Killian snapped. "Spare me the overcompensation for your failures as a father, my liege. If you're interested in actually helping your daughter, you'll come with me, out to my ship. Cora's taken her and tried to make it look like my fault."

"And you want to help my daughter _why?"_

"I – " That question was a trap, and he'd almost stepped in it. He adopted a flippant, bored look instead. "I don't know what you really think of me, though I can likely guess. But if you think I'm keen to see Cora blow this bloody place to kingdom come, you're mistaken. Don't like her, don't care for her, not inviting her to my next fancy to-do, take your pick. If she succeeds in conquering this world, our own is next. And as your lovely wife and daughter have also surely told you, it still exists – barely. Don't tell me you haven't thought of going back there and finishing your noble work. Ruling the kingdom, having your happy-ever-after. Eh?"

"And what's in it for you? You're a pirate. I know how pirates think."

"Clearly you don't, otherwise you'd have expected me to show up here. And not everyone eats their vegetables, says their bedtime prayers, only ever sleeps with their lawfully wedded bride, never says the word shit, and wears sensible underpants like you, Your Highness, but that doesn't mean we're all no better than the ogres. Your dearly beloved womenfolk will have told you at _least_ that they would never have gotten home without me?"

That gave the man pause for a moment. Then he snapped, "Fine. _Fine._ I'll go with you. But don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a _second."_

Killian blinked. "Like father, like daughter indeed." Then he called to Snow, "Don't worry, love. I'm not at all into that sort of thing. It's only your lass I want."

She looked as if she was about to throw something at his head. Killian, with Charming now loathingly in train, took that as his cue to leave.

 ----------

Keeping low, shooting as many glances to as many sides as possible without growing a second head, Emma Swan moved out of the safety of the boathouse and started her advance down the pier. She felt ridiculous, like an actress in a movie going against a monster the techies were planning to digitally insert later, which was currently just a tennis ball on a stick. She couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, only the typical assortment of fishing boats, catamarans, and other private craft that populated the waterfront. Certainly nothing that looked remotely like a big-ass pirate ship. But Cora had said that Belle was on board, and Emma couldn't think of another logical place to find a ship in this town. Even knowing that this was the move the witch wanted her to make wasn't enough to stop her. Belle was a citizen of Storybrooke, hence it was Emma's responsibility to rescue her, and she damn well needed to show some responsibility after the way she'd drunk herself to blackout and let herself get into that bad situation last night. Besides, if Gold found out. . . fell for Cora's frame job at the station, or just took it as an excuse. . . knowing what he'd said about Hook, telling her to leave the pirate to him. . .

Yet again, unhappily, Emma asked herself why it mattered to her that this was a possibility. Hook was nothing but an exasperation in her life, and even if she didn't plan to let Gold flay him into a million little pieces, that certainly didn't mean she wanted him around. She wanted him to get back to his own world, killing people and ravishing wenches and hoisting the colors and ravishing wenches and burying treasure and ravishing wenches and whatever else it was that unscrupulous pirate captains got up to in their spare time –

(Why did it bother her so much when she thought about him ravishing wenches? Not that he necessarily did. He probably didn't have a hard time finding women eager to leap into bed with him, and he hadn't ravished her. Not that there had really been opportunity. And not that he didn't seem interested in the idea. Not that _she_ was interested. But he had been. Of course. He was a pirate. Who ravished wenches.)

Hissing angrily, Emma reached the end of the pier and looked up and down. She still saw nothing, just murky blue-grey water. Had Cora been flat out lying, hoping to lure her here on her own? But if so, why hadn't she said the cabin in the woods or something, where it would be easier to get rid of her with nobody watching? Emma still wasn't frightened of the witch, not exactly, but she would be extremely foolish to underestimate her. What if Cora's inability to take her heart was a one-time thing? What if she'd found something else that gave her the power?

Disheartened and confused, Emma was just about to turn around, head back to the sheriff's office, and try to trace Cora from her disappearance there, when she noticed that the waves lapping at the pier were acting strangely. They weren't lapping at all, in fact. They were spreading out to either side as if a stone, a very large stone, had been dropped into the harbor. Or as if something else – a very large something else – was sitting in the middle of them.

Emma sucked in a quick breath and looked around yet again for potential witnesses. She didn't want, for example, Gold to come charging down the jetty breathing fire, but it wouldn't hurt if someone was nearby to pull her out if she fell in from trying what she was about to try. In either case, there was no one. Baby Jesus have mercy on her, she was in this all by herself.

She backed up a few dozen feet, took a running start, and launched herself into thin air.

For a horrible moment, there was nothing but the water underneath her, and she winced, wondered if she could convert a bellyflop into a cannonball in time, and thought that this was really going to hurt, not to mention be very cold and wet. Then she slammed into something solid in what looked like empty air, something that felt very much like wood, and a tangle of wet, rough hemp beneath her clawing fingers. Winded, gasping, she hung onto them like a monkey in the zoo, flashing back to climbing ropes in gym when she'd been with a foster family that bothered to send her to school. She'd gotten good at doing it, because it was a way to escape the bullies who teased her for her dirty clothes, her sullen demeanor, the fact that she had no parents and no friends, her only intermittent completion of homework and assignments, and her total lack of awareness about anything that was "trendy." The last time she'd faced it, she'd told the bullies to go fuck themselves, and rather than take another suspension, walked from the school out onto the streets and never returned. She met Neal three months later.

 _Oh God. I thought I'd forgotten that._ Emma bunched her legs under her, and got a better grip on whatever was there – she still couldn't see anything. But she put one hand over another, and started to climb.

As she did, she began to see traces in the air, sketched in as if an artist was drawing it in pencil. Something that looked like a bow, a gunwale, a slender etching of mast. A furled sail, a figurehead, and something that was very definitely a cannon – she felt cold iron when she touched it. It _was_ here. And so, then, must Cora.

Emma put every other thought out of her head and concentrated on climbing, feeling oddly piratelike herself – give her an eyepatch and a peg-leg, and she could be a rival buccaneer boarding on the high seas. The further she got, the more it came into focus, until she was hanging by both hands just below the railing of a very real and very present pirate ship. It looked like something else out of a movie ("fifteen men on the dead man's chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," she mumbled) but it was no laughing matter. Belle was somewhere on here, probably hurt, and Cora was lying in wait. Gold couldn't be far behind, heaven knew where Hook was or what he was doing, and her parents had surely gotten concerned by now.

 _The word clusterfuck was invented for situations like this one._ Emma worked up some momentum, then swung over the railing and landed with a thump on the deck, which didn't move an inch beneath her feet. For some reason she'd expected this to feel like a wobbly little play boat on a bathtub, but it was deep and sturdy as a house. _See how well she holds together when the hammer comes down, I guess._

Emma looked from side to side. The ship was apparently deserted. Either all the crew members were below, tied up in the bilges, or it was just Hook and Cora that had come through. Not that this was at all a comforting thought, since those two were bad enough on their own, but it did imply that they had no backup to call on if things got hairy. She still had no gun, but she did have a nightstick, which was the only weapon she'd been able to locate in the sheriff's office; no way was she going back to her apartment to root around for a kitchen knife. _Speaking of backup, I could use some._

That, too, was going to have to wait. Emma set off at a purposeful stride across the deck, toward what looked to be the captain's cabin at the stern. _He barged into my place, I'm going to barge into his._ She had to determinedly push away the horrible thought that had just occurred to her: that Cora had packed the hold with gunpowder, and now that she had her nemesis aboard, was going to blow both Emma and Belle sky-high. But no. Cora wouldn't want to take the risk of destroying her ticket back to the Enchanted Forest. Whatever she was doing here, it was just a prelude to even bigger and badder things back home.

The elaborate door wasn't locked. Emma frowned. This was getting too easy, and she had every reason already to believe that it was a trap. But still. . .

She pushed it open. Dim amber light filtered through the diamonded-glass windows of a lushly appointed cabin – Hook wasn't one to scant on the material comforts, apparently. Why should he? He was a pirate, _the_ pirate, he could afford anything that stolen gold could buy. The claw-footed mahogany table was cluttered with a careless array of charts, sextants, half-burned candles with wax stalactites spilling over their sooty brass holders, tarnished goblets containing some sort of liquid (rum, rum, or rum) and various small daggers, which Emma was pleased to see. She darted forward and grabbed the first one off the table, then glanced around.

A curtained bed was built to the right side of the cabin, big enough for two or three. _What did you expect? It probably was wench-ravishing location number one._ Emma shoved that thought out of her head again and listened hard; she could just hear a faint noise coming from behind the red drapes. It was definitely female. It didn't sound like Cora.

"Sheriff," Emma hissed, and broke into a run across the creaking floorboards.

She pulled the curtains aside. Even though she'd expected what was behind it, she still recoiled. Storybrooke's young librarian was lying inside, tied up hand and foot with a gag in her mouth and an ugly red gash across her cheek, where Cora had clearly acquired the blood to paint on the sheriff's station wall. At that moment, Emma wondered if Hook had actually been as compliant in the plan as the witch claimed, but he had at least kept her deliberately out of the way, and been up to no good while doing so. This wasn't the time to exonerate him.

Belle, seeing Emma, began to make short, urgent noises. Emma whipped out the dagger, mouthing reassurances, and sawed through the ropes as quickly as she could, having cut the gag first. Then she helped Belle sit up, using her sleeve to wipe the blood off the young woman's cheek. "Oh my God, are you all right?"

"Fine." Belle winced. "I have to learn how to kick _somebody's_ arse. I'm tired of being used to wipe the floor all the time."

"Can't blame you, sister." Emma shot a glance over her shoulder. They had to get out of here before Cora. . . "Did you see who attacked you?"

Belle's expression darkened. "It was a man with a hook. There can't be two like him."

"Man with a hook," Emma repeated, her stomach sinking. So it _had_ been Killian after all. She didn't want to think about it, she knew it was probably true but didn't want it to be. . . yet she remembered just then that Cora could change shape, that she had disguised herself as Lancelot to follow them to the wardrobe. This excuse-the-man, blame-the-woman bullshit was as old as Adam and Eve, as old as the fact that a sexually active guy was called a stud and a sexually active girl was called a slut, but Emma couldn't let her feelings for Hook, whatever the hell they were, get in the way of investigating this crime. "How do you know him?" She'd heard one version from Regina, but she had to see if Belle's matched up.

"I. . . he broke into my cell when I was held captive in _her_ castle." Belle's mouth tightened. "He said he was going to rescue me, then I told him I wouldn't help him hunt down Rumple, and he knocked me out. I don't know what happened to him after that, I never saw him again. Until now. This is. . . this is his ship, isn't it?"

"Yes," Emma had to admit. "I'm not sure who's behind all this, him or Cora. Either way, it's bad. Well, come on. We have to get out of here. Do you need help or something?"

Belle shook her head stubbornly. "No, I'm all right. I don't want Rumple to find me here. It'll make him angry, it'll make him so angry, and I'll. . . lose him. He'll try to get revenge on them, it'll turn him back into a beast, and then. . ."

"You're a better person than I am, in that case," Emma admitted reluctantly. "I'd want to kick the shit out of the creeps that did this to me." She helped Belle roll off the bed, trying to suppress the desire to look back at it, to think that Killian – that _Hook_ – had slept there, and who else might have shared it with him. Not that she cared. She was just curious. That was all. If he'd really meant what he said to her, or if it was just an act he put on with all women. At least the ones that were useful to him. Belle's tale confirmed that he didn't have any hesitation in hurting the ones that weren't.

 _For the last time. He isn't a good man._ Emma grasped her nightstick in one hand, and Belle's arm in the other. The two women took exactly one step toward the door of the cabin.

Emma sensed it before she saw it, a cold grue down the back of her neck like sleet. She grabbed Belle as the door slammed shut and the purple smoke whirled into existence, blowing a wind through the cabin like the breath of winter. _I should have known. I did know. God_ damn _it._

"Hello, my dears," Cora said, and made a bored gesture, lighting the candles and dropping the curtains, and rammjng the latch into the door until it locked with a thump. "No, I don't think you'll be leaving. Not until we've had time for a little girl talk. Please. Sit down."

 ----------

"There," Killian Jones said, pointing proudly at the end of the pier. "There's my ship."

Prince Charming glanced at him, glanced at the water, and then back at him. "Do you think you're being funny?"

"When I'm funny, you'll be aware of it. Or perchance you won't, but now's not the time to belabor your inadequacies. You can't see the ship because it's enchanted, hence invisible. If you care to walk out to the end of the pier and take a flying leap – trust me, you'll see it."

Charming grabbed him by the collar of the expensive shirt. "Now you _really_ think you're being funny, don't you? Do you take me for a total idiot or what? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't – "

"You. . . and your tiresome. . . do-gooding." Killian was briefly certain that he was going to have to use his sword to extricate himself, but at that moment, Charming was distracted by something behind them. Whatever it was, Killian didn't get a good look, but it did cause the oaf to let go of him. With exaggerated politeness, the pirate enquired, "Can I assist you with something, my liege?"

"I'm sure you have no idea at all why what looks a whole lot like Regina Mills' car just drove up to the harbor parking lot, and why someone who looks a whole lot like Mr. Gold just got out of the passenger seat looking like he's about to freeze hell over?"

 _That_ was enough to knock any further witty remarks clean out of Killian's head. His crocodile. . . he couldn't be entirely certain from this distance, but the spark of vengeful hatred that had jumped up in his belly needed no further confirmation. He felt almost mesmerized as he stared at the small figure, half-tempted to draw his sword and charge even though he knew it would avail him nothing against the Dark One. Even in this sad, broken, dirty world without magic (or without as much of it) he couldn't do something stupid and ruin three hundred years of planning. The tattoo on his right arm felt as if it was burning. _So close now, my love. Almost there._ It was what he'd been waiting for, all this time. He should feel exultant.

So why was it at this pivotal moment, he couldn't quite recall the way Milah's smile had looked? Or what she'd said when she first came aboard the _Jolly Roger,_ or any time thereafter when he did something she judged to be dangerous and/or stupid _?_ Or her favorite bawdy jokes or the earthy sound of her laughter, the smell of her tumbled dark curls and the sweat on her skin after they'd made love? They were all memories Killian _thought_ he should have, and generally assumed he did, but when he went searching through the dark warrens of his head, all the boxes were empty. _Did Neverland take that from me? The world where you lose your old life?_

But how could he forget Milah, when she'd been everything to him? Didn't the fact that he could still remember her right now prove that he hadn't forgotten? But he had, somehow, without ever noticing when. And even more strangely, it didn't wake a volcanic rage at being robbed of everything he held most dear. Just a. . . a confusion, almost. A numbness. As if after three hundred years of a brilliant, demented fever dream of blood and vengeance, he was finally about to wake up.

"Well?" Charming's voice cut angrily into his reverie. "Are we planning to do something?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Killian shook his head, grabbed the prince's elbow before he could protest too loudly at being contaminated by a man of such coarse moral fiber, and began to hustle them down toward the end of the pier as fast as they could go. "Yes, we most assuredly are."

 ----------

"Well, my dears?" Cora said archly. "Aren't you planning to say something? In _my_ world, young ladies are better brought up. So the fact that you two are still gawping at me like a pair of peasants does not, I am afraid, speak much for your education."

"It's my world too." Surprisingly, it was Belle who recovered first. "It's my world, _our_ world. And you ruined it."

Cora shook her head, smiling. "No. That was my daughter, who I imagine you hold a similar grudge against. Decades of imprisonment, and you're content to let her walk around unchallenged? All for the sake of _him?_ I thought you were a stronger person than that, but now I see that you exist only to please your man. You treat him far better than he deserves, and let everyone else walk over you. You need to fight harder against this wretched world and what it does to women, my dear." The witch held out a hand. "I can teach you."

Belle pressed her lips together. "What Regina did to me is in the past," she said. "Someone else will see to it that she suffers. Something tells me it will be you."

"Clever girl," Cora breathed. "But you can't tell me that there is no impulse for vengeance at all. Or is it cowardice that stays your hand?"

Belle glared at her. "I prefer to call it decency."

"Incorruptible goodness." Cora's lip curled. "Fainting damsel that you are. Keep getting hurt, keep getting imprisoned solely because you cling to your desire to 'change' a man who will never change. Just like the other one. Captain Hook gives you _that_ – " she indicated the drying blood on Belle's cheek – "and I suppose you want to meekly pardon him again as well?"

At that Emma, who had been silent until now as she looked frantically about in search of an escape, jerked back around. "Tell me, Cora," she said, in the same poisonously polite tone the witch liked to use on them. "Was that really Hook? Or since you just so happened to show me back at the sheriff's office that you have that very hook in your possession, should we just so happen to think it might have been you changing shape again?" If that _was_ the case, if Cora had been double-crossing Killian as well as her. . . well, she didn't know what the ever-living fuck it meant for her future actions. Just that there might have been some sincerity in Killian's – _Captain Hook's, damn it –_ offer to help her. And that was twice as terrifying as the fact that she was currently trapped in his ship by an insane sorceress.

Cora's smile flickered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you?" Emma let go of Belle's arm – the other woman didn't seem to need the support – and used both hands to take a better grip on her nightstick. Not that it was probably going to do her a fat lot of good, but she hoped she got in a few almighty whacks at least. "I think you do. It wouldn't make much sense to pose as Hook, unless you _had_ the hook. And the last time I saw him, he definitely didn't have it."

"And since you just accused me of impersonating him. . . you knew it was the real him, how?"

"Trust me. There can't be anyone else as infuriating as he is."

"I see," Cora murmured. "And yet for all your professions of total hatred, you and your friend refuse to join me in fighting back against a man who's wronged you both. That's all I want, you know." A coaxing tone entered her voice. "I'm a mother. I want what's best for my children."

"I'm a mother too." Emma stared her down. "I can't say that it's ever caused me to have a deep and abiding desire to wreck other people's lives. And I am not your child."

"But you do," Cora said silkily. "Wreck other people's lives. Mostly by accident, I'm willing to grant you. Yet look what's happened to this place since you arrived."

"I broke your daughter's curse."

"And everything has worked out perfectly, hasn't it? No difficulties at all, no arguments, no lost families, no broken hearts? Every villain has gotten what they deserve and every apple-cheeked heroine has found her perfect prince?" Cora shook her head. "Oh, you sweet fools. That's why Regina brought you here. This is the world _without_ happy endings."

Emma hesitated. She was supposed to say something back, she knew, but the witch had just cut to the core of all the unrest, grief, and alienation she was feeling ever since she'd come back through the portal. All her guilt at being unable to bond with her family like she should, all her turmoil about Hook, all her shock and agony from seeing – from seeing fucking _Neal,_ all her failed responsibility and the weight of her own expectations of how she should heal. . .

Cora knew her blow had struck home. "Ah," she said softly. "The weight of that human heart is too terrible to bear, isn't it? Step a bit closer to me. I'm sure that this time, I can free you from your burden."

Emma shook her head like a horse chasing off flies, vaguely aware that she was being enchanted, but unable to form the defiant words that would save her. Her defenses were utterly down, and if Cora plunged a hand into her chest now and pulled, she wasn't so sure that her heart would stay where it was supposed to. Almost in a dream, she took a step forward. Wasn't it what she had always wanted? To be strong enough? To get rid of the pain and guilt for good?

Belle, however, had other ideas. She reached out and grabbed a candelabra from the table, then put herself between Emma and Cora. "You're going through me first."

"Ah." The witch's expression turned sour. "The beauty grows a backbone at a _very_ inconvenient time. You're facing me with a _candlestick?_ This one won't sing and dance, I'm afraid. It's not even going to help you. I'm going to kill you now, and you are not going to enjoy it. It won't be a beautiful or tragic or romantic death. It will simply be a fact."

"Try me." Belle tightened her grip. "You told me I should start fighting back against people who want to hurt me. I think this time I will."

"Misunderstood advice. The bane of every mother." Cora shook back her gauzy cobalt sleeves. "You'd regret this, but there won't be enough of you left."

Emma jerked up as if surfacing from a very deep dive. Now, the moment was now. She had to act, had to throw herself in the way, had to get her magic going, had to do it now, had to do it _now,_ be a hero, be the hero, be the savior, had to do it, do it right –

Cora reared back like a striking cobra. The hot ozone scent of magic and the boiling white glare of its torrent filled the captain's cabin like a falling star.

And then, the door broke down.


	9. Flesh and Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I really hope this chapter makes sense, because I was writing it today in an attempt to distract myself. My sister, who was in the intensive care unit for 10 days earlier this fall with a blood disorder, has just had to go back into the hospital with sepsis and a raging infection and high fever and other fun stuff. I know there's a lot going on the world right now, but I would really appreciate it if you kept her and my family in your thoughts. Hopefully they'll be able to control the reaction with antibiotics and she'll be out in time for Christmas. Thanks!

The first thing Killian Jones saw after he'd broken down his own door – something that he deeply disliked doing, it was hand-carved mahogany for heaven's sake – was a blazing white light. Since he didn't think he'd died quite yet, and doubted in any event that the destination waiting for him when he did was this color (a vile, sulfurous, flaming red was more like it) it meant that Cora had just done something of a regrettable nature. Regrettable for her, that was. If she – if she had _dared_ –

The precise nature of Killian's fury was hard to define, even to himself. _Especially_ to himself. After that moment on the pier when he had seen the Dark One, and realized just how many of his memories of Milah had slipped away on moth's wings while he wasn't looking, it had left him with a mounting avalanche of questions when his revenge should have been the simplest thing, the only thing left. And now it had made him very, very angry indeed, and the door to his own cabin, hand-carved mahogany or not, was the last thing in his way.

It never stood a chance.

As it gave, Killian went straight into a somersault, underneath the conflicting, scorching currents of magic dueling it out in midair. His cabin was going to be a bloody _mess,_ and he fully intended to collect reparations from all the guilty parties. He didn't forgive debts. Most pirates worth their weight in piss didn't. He'd stabbed a man once for failing to pay him back a shilling. And now, since he'd been forced to recruit Prince bloody Charming as an ally and face off with the whole sodding lot of them exactly when he _hadn't_ planned it, when he _wasn't_ ready, when he'd acted like a bloody idiot just to get to _her –_

Aye, someone was going to pay. And pay dear.

Killian rolled to his feet, wondering if it had been wise to turn his back on Charming. No easier way to get knocked out, trussed up in sailcloth with a cannonball at his feet, and pitched into Storybrooke harbor. But the one advantage of having chivalrous opponents was that they generally turned up their well-formed noses at such discreditable activities. A good enemy was to be preferred at your back to a bad friend.

Either way, it was beside the point. Cora was still attempting to fry two women – he couldn't see their faces, and he did very much hope that he wasn't going to all this fuss and botheration for a pair of kitchen sluts – and therefore had committed the cardinal sin of failing to look around at his dramatic entrance. Charming would be galumphing in here at any moment with blade drawn, breathing blood and fire, and then things would _really_ go cat-a-wampus. Besides, Killian had a more effective method in mind.

He stepped up behind the witch as she was readying for another blow, and tapped her on the shoulder. Distracted, she spun around, and the lethal dose of magic she had been aiming at the two women went harmlessly wide, deflecting off the wall.

"Captain?" Cora stared at him. Shock turned into fury. _"Captain!"_

"Hello, sweetheart," he drawled, making it as casual and patronizing as he could. "I'd like me hook back now, thanks."

\----------

Emma Swan had no idea what had just happened, only that something had. Only that there were suddenly a crap-ton of pyrotechnics flying at her, lighting up the place like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, and she'd thrown up her hands in a totally instinctive response (yeah, like she could deflect a high-grade payload of murderous magic). She'd managed to get Belle behind her, and thus far, considering the circumstances, they were hanging in all right. But it wasn't going to be for much longer.

That was when she saw – just barely, through all the noise and light and heat – the door break down. And saw him stride across the cabin floor and step up behind Cora, causing her to spin around just as she was launching an Emperor Palpatine-level of lightning at them, which Emma was not at all confident in her ability to withstand. Saw him, cool as a cucumber, hold out his hand, smile in that way he had, and meet her eyes.

"Hook," Killian Jones repeated. "That's all I care about. Then you three lovely lasses can feel quite free to get on with your fight. Such a pity there's no mud in here, but you all have excellent hair for pulling, and I'll be happy to lend my assistance if any of you feels like ripping off her top. After which, however – " his gaze moved off Emma, whom he'd been staring at the entire time, and back to Cora – "I'll be _extremely_ interested to hear just why you thought you could use my ship for yourself, and why I shouldn't treat you as I would anyone else who stole something very dear to me. Don't look so surprised."

Cora _had_ apparently been so shocked by her co-conspirator's appearance that she didn't have an immediate answer, a fact which Emma noted analytically. _She didn't want him to know what she was doing to me._ But all her faint, kicked-on, counter-rational hopes that this meant – meant _something –_ vanished the next instant.

"Yes, Captain," Cora said sweetly. "I _am_ surprised to see you. After all, the last time I saw you, you were plotting with that dismal little henchman of yours to kidnap Miss Swan yourself. I was just expediting the plan, since you were distracted with that _other_ shabby imbecile in your entourage. It must be something about you that attracts them. What did you call him?" The witch looked straight into Emma's eyes. "Our princess's former amour? Who you had _so_ much influence over that you could make him go see her at just the wrong moment?"

Emma's head went light. _Neal. Is she – she can't be talking about Neal?_ Oh God. Had _that_ been part of Hook tormenting her? He'd sent in fucking _Neal_ to give her a heart attack and drive her into drinking until her eyeballs floated? What had she said to him, back on the beanstalk – had just her admission that she had maybe been in love, once, been enough ammunition? How the hell had he met Neal and figured it out? And even if so, why? _Why?_

She was so stunned that she couldn't even say anything. Hook, she noticed, was not denying it, and that made it worse. To Cora he said again, "My hook, please."

The witch smiled nastily. "No."

"Fine." Hook shrugged. "Then I won't tell you about our visitors. Either they'll be storming in here to take you on, or they're all fighting amongst themselves on the deck. And I do have to warn you, I will hold you _very_ liable for any further damage to my girl."

"Do you mean the ship or Miss Swan?" Cora asked, arching an eyebrow. "I confess myself uncertain. But very well. It's a deal. For now."

The hook dropped to the floor with a thump, and the witch was gone in purple smoke.

\----------

"Well, Emma," the pirate said. "Believe me, I most sincerely regret that little scene. It's a pity it had to happen at all." He stooped, retrieved his hook, and slotted it into the brace over the stump of his left wrist, locking it with a click. "But you may thank me any time you like."

That did it. Her state of paralyzed numbness snapped. _"_ Have – you – lost – your – fucking _– mind?"_ She lunged at him, hammering him with her fists; he blocked them adroitly, catching her arm out of the way with his hook and draping it elegantly over his shoulder. This infuriated her further, and she kept struggling, trying to punch him, but only managing to get more entangled as he got her up against the wall of the cabin, his body in uncomfortably close proximity, his smirking fucking unfairly handsome face just a few inches from hers. "You think I'm going to _thank_ you? If any of that – what she just said, what – "

"You can stop hitting me any time you like, as well," he shot back. It was infuriating how untroubled he sounded. "And perchance recall that you have no good reason to believe anything Cora says, eh, _love?_ You never even asked me why I was here."

She left off, chest heaving, wishing that he would let go of her, that his sheer physical nearness would stop scrambling her circuits, but he had her in both arms and her back against the wall, and Belle must have run out after Cora, because there was no one else in the cabin to intervene. God _damn_ him and his total lack of personal space and common decency, like the creepy drunk at the bar who found every excuse to sidle up to you, grind on you like a dirty dancer – which Hook wasn't actually doing at the moment, but not by much. Still. . .

"All right," she said through her teeth. "Was Cora lying? Everything she said about you arranging to kidnap me? About Neal?"

His unsettling sea-blue eyes held hers. "No, love. She wasn't. But she wasn't telling the truth either."

"I really don't like that answer." She squirmed, which had the effect of bringing her hips to align solidly against his. "It's you talking out of both sides of your mouth again. If you're so confident in what you've done, why did you have to push me up on this wall? Huh?"

"Firstly because I am not one to pass up an opportunity to get a beautiful woman on her back, on whichever surface presents itself." The bastard was doing the sultry murmur thing where his lips were just a breath from her ear, as if he thought it was distracting (it was, it was extremely distracting). "Secondly because I informed you, back at our last acquaintance of note, that I wouldn't have done what _you_ – " he shoved against her harder, while his hook almost tenderly stroked a long lock of blonde hair out of her face – "did, and left you behind. I supposed it was my duty to back up that statement. Here I am. I came back. I didn't leave you to the mercy of the witch. It's more than you did for me."

Emma's throat was dry as a desert. Her heart was going like a trip hammer. She either wanted to kill him or she wanted to kiss him, and whichever it was, she wanted it very badly. The back of her neck was soaked with sweat; butterflies were rioting in her gut. She was mortifyingly aware that this was not at all an appropriate physiological response to a man she supposedly hated, and Hook, seasoned professional rakehell that he was, undoubtedly knew it too. How easy it would be to lean forward just a fraction and take his mouth with hers, turn the tables on _him_ for once. He liked to use his looks and sex appeal to one-up everything with two X chromosomes that he met, but for whatever reason – probably just because he thought she was playing hard-to-get, and he couldn't resist a challenge – he'd acquired a particular fixation on her. If she played it back. . . stopped letting him have all the power over her, reducing her to goo like she was a hormonal teenager. . .

But she had never been good at feminine wiles, and definitely not at playing. And trying to start it on him. . . he knew too much about her. He _could_ destroy her if he wanted, and not just with his sword. She was too fragile, too compromised, for him to really fear her. And a much larger game was raging around both of them.

Hook had been watching her face intimately, reading her thoughts, in just another of his multitude of infuriating habits. "I'd wait until you finish struggling with your conscience, love," he said, his words so close that she could feel them on her too-hot cheek, "but unfortunately, we don't have the time for it. There's liable to be something messy going on outside between your father and Cora, and even Charming and his farts that smell of roses could use some help against her."

"What – my _father?"_ Emma stared at him. "What the _hell_ did you do with him _–?"_

"Saved your neck, love." He encircled it with his good hand, resting his callused thumb at the pounding pulse in the hollow of her throat. "And an exquisite neck it is. But if you're ready to bin the tiresome old wanker, stay in here, and make passionate love, that's perfectly fine by me too. He'll just have to do for himself."

"Bastard!" Emma shoved him off with both hands. "I really can't stand you!"

"Ah, sweetheart, but I can stand you." He quirked both eyebrows salaciously. "If you know what I'm saying."

"Rot in hell."

"Oh, don't worry." With a final cutting smirk over his shoulder, he crossed the floor and wrenched the cabin door open. "I will."

Seeing _that,_ there was no choice but to throw herself after him.

\----------

A blast of cold, salty air hit Emma broadside as she emerged, followed almost immediately by a feeling of foreboding so strong that it almost made her physically sick. The reason for it was divined an instant later. Standing at the far side of the deck, arms folded, were the four people who could make the situation worse: Charming, Belle, Gold, and Regina, in that order. There was no sign of Cora.

Hook stopped short. She could detect surprise in the set of his shoulders – how had she already become so attuned to his unspoken emotions? – and disquiet. But that was gone in an instant. "And what in the thousand thieves of Ali Baba," he enquired, voice so soft with malice as to almost sound pleasant, "are the lot of _you_ doing on _my_ ship?"

"Thousand thieves?" Emma interjected. "I thought there were forty."

"There are, as a point of fact, seventeen, and they're a lot of ill-groomed and incompetent mongrels who couldn't stick up a dishonest merchant if their lives depended on it. Ali Baba's a liar, just like me." Hook's gaze had not swerved from the intruders. "Ah, Your Highness," he threw out to Charming. "So quick to take up with my enemies now, are you?"

"Belle told me what she saw inside that cabin. She saw you threatening my daughter. So you brought me here on a lie, as I suspected, and I don't know what you thought you were going to get away with, but – "

"Your darling daughter is standing right there, perfectly intact, except somewhat fluttery in the chest and weak in the knees from how much she. . . hates me. You're going to have to do better."

"Do we?" It was Gold that spoke this time. He had one hand possessively on Belle's shoulder, and the other rose up like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, a specter pointing at his nemesis. "It's just a coincidence, Mr. Jones, that after all this time when we come face to face again, this young lady has a gash on her cheek and there's dried blood on your hook? After by her account, escaping from captivity _in your bed?"_

Killian paused, but only for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Matter of fact, it is."

"You vermin." Now it was Regina's turn. "You've betrayed every one of us, and you took up with my mother and brought her _here_ to this world. There's no forgiving that crime. I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Hook drew his sword and brought it up, slow and tauntingly, as he stepped back behind the great wooden wheel of the _Roger._ "How about you try?"

"No! All of you!" Emma stepped out onto the deck between them. "If you think I'm letting this turn into a massacre on my watch, you're wrong. And I'm the sheriff, so you had better think long and hard about listening."

"Get out of the way, _Sheriff,"_ Regina snapped. "There's only one person who's going to die here, and I'd rather not have to explain to Henry that it was you."

Emma glared back at her. "Oh yeah? Look, Regina. We don't like each other and that's just a fact, but you _know_ what your mother is capable of doing. You know she's here, she already burned your house. And Gold." She turned entreatingly to the pawnbroker, who was looking less and less like his mild-mannered, soft-spoken self every moment. In his eyes, she could see a truly bestial rage. "There's a better way to handle this. A better way to. . . to deal."

"I'm afraid there isn't, Miss Swan. Kindly step aside. I too would not care to explain to your lad what a tragic accident befell you."

That made David break ranks. "Rumplestiltskin, I don't know what's between you and this good-for-nothing loser, but you'd better not ever threaten my daughter's life again."

"Oh, that wasn't a threat, dearie." Gold giggled. It was a high, manic sound, one Emma had never heard from him. "It was a warning."

"Rumple!" Belle said angrily. "Don't!"

Shooting a panicked glance over her shoulder at Hook, Emma realized that he didn't appear ruffled in the slightest by the battle royale shaping up aboard his beloved vessel. In fact, he looked a lot like she thought the Cheshire Cat would (Jefferson could confirm or disprove later) what with the shit-eating smirk he was currently wearing. This entire time, while they had been arguing among themselves about who got to kill him, he'd been hauling on the wheel, and as the wind hit the opposite side of her face from before, Emma realized that they were moving, already reversed out of their mooring in the harbor and starting to pick up speed down the coast. What was more, she was the only one who seemed to notice it.

Something about this was off. She knew how much he'd been looking forward to getting here, to taking revenge on his crocodile, and for him to be treating this long-awaited appearance so cavalierly. . . they were definitely well underway, moving fast and now faster, and. . .

"Hook!" she said, trying not to take her eyes off any of the ship's half-dozen passengers. It was about as easy as you'd think. "What are you doing?"

That woke Gold and Regina back to the presence of their least favorite person in this world or any other, and they were once more united in the death glares they turned on him. "Yes, _Captain,"_ Regina said, poisonously sweet. She sounded unnervingly like her mother. "What _are_ you doing?"

"It's unfortunate, but since coming to Storybrooke, I've barely had a chance to nose around. Get out to the country, take in the sights, stretch me legs and do a bit of exploring. When I first arrived here, however, I encountered an establishment called Clark's Drugstore, proprietor by the name of Tom Clark. Seemed a bit of a strange bloke, so I made a few discreet enquiries. And. . ." Hook shrugged. "The answers were _very_ helpful."

There was a pause as Emma, Belle, Charming, Regina, and Gold all stared at each other blankly, but it was Charming who got it first. "No!" he shouted. "You son of a _bitch!"_

Emma turned wildly to her father. "What? What's he doing?"

"Don't worry, Your Highness," Hook taunted. "Your beloved daughter will be just fine. As will I, seeing as I was never affected by the curse in the first place. The rest of _you,_ however. . . well, surely you've been bored out of your skull, cooped up here for twenty-eight years?"

"No!" Belle screamed. Shaking off Gold's hand, she lunged at Hook, and he caught her and spun her aside almost carelessly. "Turn around!"

" _What –_ " Emma bellowed. _"Is – Going – On?"_

"Don't worry, princess." Hook sounded only slightly breathless as he wrestled Belle off from her second attempt to assault him. "As I said, nothing will happen to you. But since these four were foolish enough to step onto my ship, I'm just going to sail us beyond the boundary and put an end to all this nonsense in the quick and humane way. Once they forget who they are, there won't be anyone sadder than me. I may even shed a tear."

"What – forget?" Emma grabbed her father's arm. "What is he talking about?!"

David looked at her blackly. "We can't go beyond the town limits. If so, our cursed selves become our only selves. Gold, Regina, Belle, and I. . . we'll all forget that we have a life outside this world. Belle and I definitely will, at least. _Those_ two might have some sort of guard, seeing as _they_ were the ones who made the curse. Now let go of me. I'm sorry, I have to do it."

"No. . ." She had no idea who she was talking to, only that she breathed the word in utter, absolute horror. She spun on her heel. "Killian! Killian, _don't!"_

"On first-name terms, are we?" Gold was right behind her, his hands starting to crackle with magic. "I'm _very_ sorry, dearie, but this is not negotiable."

"Don't worry!" Hook roared back. His teeth were bared, and there was a crazed look in his eye, almost murderous in its intensity. "When we get to the far side, I'll be sure to _remind_ you of why I'm killing you, before I rip your heart out! Then you'll have that! But I won't! I'll never remember! I don't even remember my bloody _childhood,_ anything from before I went to Neverland!" His voice cracked, frenetic with grief and rage. "I've forgotten, and _you – will – too!"_

 _The lost boy._ Emma stared at him, suddenly speechless. All those times when she'd been a child, when she'd read _Peter Pan,_ when she'd imagined flying away from her dreary life, having adventures in a magical world, finding a mother and father – having a home –

"Killian," she begged. The sails were straining and creaking in the wind of their speed. She didn't know how close to the edge they were, how at any moment her father could forget her for good, lose everything they were struggling to put back together. Tears were starting to stream down her cheeks. _"Killian, don't!"_

"Sorry, love." He bit off the endearment like it was poisonous, hauling on the wheel with his hook. "You had your chance. I told you back there. I proved to you what I wanted to prove. I haven't forgotten why I came here. It wasn't for you."

" _No!"_ Charming hurled himself headlong at the pirate.

" _No!"_ Emma screamed. Without him, there was no way they could turn the ship around in time – without him, there was no way she could –

"You owe me a favor, dearie," Gold breathed in her ear. "And right now, I'm calling it in. Step aside. Step aside so I can kill him, to save you and your family and all of us. You're not going to be quite so selfish as to refuse. As if you could. You have no choice. _Step aside."_

For a horrible, unending moment, the world was entirely silent, except for the sound of Emma's blood pounding in her ears. She saw a seagull reeling overhead, saw Regina trying to cast some kind of spell to bring the _Jolly Roger_ under control, but whatever enchantment Cora and Hook had laid on it held fast; he was still the only one who could steer it. Saw David about to tackle Killian, saw Belle about to scream something at Gold –

 _A favor._ She did. She owed him one. She'd made that bargain to save Ashley's child. She didn't regret it. But it was only now she learned, with the strange, queer, perfect clarity that attends the most calamitous moment of one's life, what it was going to cost her.

_It's more than you did for me._

She turned around, and said the last word on her lips. Almost in a whisper.

"No."


	10. Into the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who offered their well wishes on my sister. She is out of ICU for the moment, but remains in the hospital with a systemic staph infection (scary stuff, but it's under control, thankfully). Unfortunately, no discharge date in sight, so she might still be in over Christmas. On a happier note: THIS FIC WAS RECOMMENDED ON THE OFFICIAL FUCK YES EMMA AND HOOK TUMBLR! I'm so squee-ful right now. What an honor.
> 
> /puts on official "I Contributed to Fandom" hat
> 
> ahem anyway

"No?"

The word sounded strange, stretched out, spoken impossibly slow, with far more strength and spine-chilling coldness than it seemed possible to fit into a simple two-letter statement of negation. Time had stopped around it, freezing the seagulls in their flapping overhead and silencing the waves below, even holding the _Jolly Roger_ itself motionless on the choppy grey water. It froze a blast of magic in midair, her father in the middle of his leap, at the instant he was about to hit Hook in a full-on flying rugby tackle. It reached out with a pale hand to touch her face, fingernails digging into her flesh, turning her eyes up to –

" _No?"_ Rumplestiltskin breathed. Any remaining trace of Mr. Gold, mild-mannered pawnbroker, was shredding away by the instant, like strips of old wallpaper. "We had a deal, princess. A _deal._ And you're saying now you have no intent to hold up your end of the bargain? That, dearie. That is _very – bad – business."_

"I. . . won't." Emma sucked in a desperate breath as the world restarted with a sound like an explosion. Regina's magic hit the crow's nest like lightning, and her father hit Hook like thunder. They went crashing down, kicking and punching at each other like a pair of urchins scrapping in the mud, and the abandoned helm spun wildly, sending her stumbling sideways as the deck went in whatever damn direction it pleased. There was clearly some kind of enchantment on the ship (aside from the fact that it had been – still was? – fucking invisible) which Regina hadn't succeeded in breaking, so they were now totally out of control, sails flying amok as the lines unfurled and came crashing down, pulleys exploding, cold spray billowing over the spars. All this was proof of her theory. _"Look!"_ she screamed. "He's the only one who can steer it! If you kill him now, we're all going to – "

"Sorry, dearie. So loud right now, I can't hear you." Rumplestiltskin clicked his fingers. At once, the fallen ropes leapt off the deck like possessed serpents, lunging for Emma before she had time to so much as get her hands up in (really stupid) hopes of a miracle. They raveled around her outstretched arms and slammed her back into the mainmast, tying her down like a hog for slaughter. If the crazed look in Rumplestiltskin's eyes was any indication, that was exactly what he had in mind.

Just up ahead, no more than a few hundred yards, Emma could see something on the water. Something like a heat refraction, shimmering like vapor. _That's it. That's the boundary._ "DAVID!" It ripped out of her lungs like a launching missile. "DAVID, JUMP!"

Her father was drawing back his fist in what looked to be an extremely successful attempt to knock Hook's lights out, as the two of them scuffled and swore and struck each other from where the prince had the pirate captain thrown up against the railing. Charming was bleeding from a long cut down his cheek, where clearly the hook itself had had its say, but at his daughter's shout, he spun around. So did Killian, for that matter, as both of them saw Emma lashed to the mast and Rumplestiltskin advancing on her like – like, well, a stalking crocodile.

" _Jump!"_ Emma jerked her chin at the boundary, which was still getting closer, and faster. " _Get off the ship!"_

"No – Emma, I won't leave you – "

" _GO!"_

At last, David seemed to appreciate the gravity of the situation. It must have killed him to turn away from his only child at a moment like this, not to mention his hated blackguard of an opponent, but the alternative was even worse. Still, Emma knew he was going to have a hard time forgiving himself for this one. He was the hero, he was supposed to save the day. Instead, he had to bail out like a coward. She didn't care. If he forgot everything –

David grabbed Belle around the waist and sprinted to the railing with her, slipping and skidding on the crazily lurching deck. An instant later, there was an enormous splash from starboard, and Emma could just see the two small dark figures kicking hard against the current. She didn't know how cold that water was, but she was betting it was cold. It couldn't be that far of a swim, but if shock –

There was only one person left on this ship who might have any interest in saving her. Emma spat out the rope that was trying to crawl into her mouth. " _Regina!_ Please – for Henry, please, for his sake – our son's sake, get me off before – "

Regina looked at her, white-faced, and then back at the boundary. It was impossible to tell what was running through her head, but she hesitated, staring at Emma as if hypnotized.

The shimmer was getting stronger every moment, like a wall of ice in the sky.

Regina ran to the side, and jumped.

" _No! You b –_ " Emma couldn't even finish the accusation; it died in her throat as she watched Regina disappear under the water, surface gasping a few seconds later, and start swimming hard for shore. Apparently, the fear that her own curse might destroy her was a greater threat for Regina than risking her life to get Emma down from the mast, to go against Rumplestiltskin at his greatest and most terrible. And even if the Evil Queen _had_ been about to do it, old habits had taken over instead. _I should know something about that._ But her bender episode hadn't –

Something lashed at her face, raking a line of fire down her cheek. It was another rope, slamming between her teeth so hard that she gagged. She spit and hacked, but couldn't get it loose, and now another one was looping around her throat. _I don't generally kill my clients. . . it's not good business._ Gold had said that back in the sheriff's office – but she'd be a fatal fool to think that the thing, the Dark One, closing in on her was anything like his alter ego. She could read his bared teeth, his maniacal expression. Whenever she did end up dead, it would be a relief, not a –

And then, out of nowhere, Killian was clawing toward her, slashing through the ropes that were attacking him. He reached the mainmast in the next instant, swung his hook into the wood directly next to Emma's head to brace himself, and used the edge of his sword to cut through her bonds, judging the stroke so expertly that he didn't even nick her skin. She came loose and slammed against him as the ship pitched again, nearly getting stabbed, and had no choice but to cling to him as they fell headlong to the deck. He rolled her over once more, planted his elbow in her shoulders, and almost bit her mouth off with his kiss.

Shock obliterated every single one of Emma's thoughts. He wasn't being at all gentle or romantic about it – not that she expected that from him now, not that she expected that from him ever. His dark stubble scratched her face, his tongue quested against her lips, deep hard wet desperate like she hadn't been kissed in she didn't even know when, like she hadn't been kissed ever. No denying he knew what he was doing, sloppy and frenzied though it was. She had the horrible urge to yield and open her mouth, to let him get on with it, to kiss him back and more, even though this was the worst of all imaginable times and some unhinged magical crackpot was about to kill one or both of them in an instant. Her hand came up against the back of his head, twisting her fingers in his hair. Both of them were gasping for breath by now, but he was still diving back in, claiming her mouth with his –

"Milah," he was saying indistinctly, kissing her harder, his lips burning down her cheek and jaw and neck. "Milah, it's all right, I have you now. I got you, it's all right. I got you back from him. It's all right now. All right." He bent in for another kiss.

Emma's heart shriveled. For some reason besides his misguided passionate attentions, she couldn't breathe. Instead, she shoved at his shoulder, not as hard as she should have. "It's not Milah," she whispered. "It's not. It's me. Emma."

For a moment, his blue eyes still stared into hers uncomprehendingly. Then he jerked away as if he'd been shot, uncoiling and springing to his feet. He spun around and stood motionless, and as she pushed herself, grimacing, to an elbow, Emma realized that they had stopped moving. An iridescent veil of magic was enclosing the entire ship, a pale amethyst color that locked them in place just a few feet from the Storybrooke boundary. _Purple_ magic – that definitely wasn't Gold's color. Even if he'd decided to save his memories at the expense of letting Hook off, well, the hook, that was the trademark of another unwelcome visitor. _Oh. Shit._

"Now _that,"_ the witch said, "was _quite_ a display. I wasn't even going to interrupt it, it seemed cruel of me. But it's not very gentlemanly of you to leave our princess on her back, Captain. Do apologize. I'll wait."

Hook didn't answer. He just remained silent, stock-still.

Cora smiled thinly, then glanced to the other man on the deck. "Rumplestiltskin."

"Cora." It wasn't entirely Rumplestiltskin and it wasn't entirely Mr. Gold who answered. His moment of psychosis did seem to have passed, at least, and he was now almost unnaturally still, like a hunting jungle cat in the scrub. "So good to see you again at last, dearie."

Emma got to her knees and slowly, stealthily tried to edge backward. Whatever shit was about to go down, it was going to be completely cataclysmic, and she didn't intend to stick around for the show. If David had gotten to shore by now, he would be utterly beside himself, probably assembling a search-and-rescue party as they spoke, to come back out here dangerously close to the edge. Even if not, Cora would have some other nasty surprise waiting for them, and something in her felt queerly desolate each time she remembered Hook's murmured words against her mouth. _Milah, it's all right. I have you now._

"I wouldn't be jumping overboard if I were you, dear," Cora called to her. "Aside from my magic, there are other things in the water just now. Not to mention, what do you call those terribly efficient bow-chaser guns of yours, Captain? The long nines?"

"All right." Emma clenched her fists to make them stop shaking. "What do you want?"

"I just want you to be a good girl and prevent anyone else from getting hurt." Cora shrugged. "Your mother was a misbehaving, willful child as well, but at least she knew to tell me about Regina and her poor little servant boy. Likewise, you now hold the lives of your family in your hands. I expect you'll remember that."

"I'm listening," Emma said through gritted teeth.

"Your mother, your father, your son, your friends. Even your unfortunate suitor."

 _Does she mean Neal or Hook?_ At the moment, Emma wouldn't necessarily object to either or both of them being turned into fricassee. Hook _had_ saved her again, but she hadto put that kiss out of her head, right now. It wasn't even supposed to happen. Hook had been having some kind of flashback, only knowing that a woman in his vicinity was being threatened by the crocodile – had Rumplestiltskin tied Milah to the mast before killing her? Or perhaps Hook himself? But either way, the instant Hook had realized it was her, Emma, that he was kissing, and not his long-lost love, he'd dropped her like she was hot. "I'm listening _intently."_

"Very good," Cora said approvingly. "Now, here's what we're going to do. First – " this to Gold – "as much as I would _love_ to catch up with you, you're going to get off the ship right now. Otherwise, I'm going to release the spell that's holding us all here, and we'll go straight through the boundary. You'll forget _everything_ about who you are. All your powers, all your past. Everything. And that would just be a tragedy."

"Wouldn't it, just." It was Gold who spoke, his mask restored, his soft voice edged with every sort of genial malice imaginable. "You've learned well, dearie."

"From the master." Cora smiled demurely. "But before you _do_ go, you're going to ensure that Miss Swan gets off the ship safely. It's foolish of me, perhaps, but I would so hate to take another woman from our dear captain. It would break his heart."

"That's exactly what I mean to do." Gold's voice remained low, and vibrating with rage. "Just as he did to me."

"How tragic," Cora said, sounding bored. "But it will have to wait. I saw what you did, Rumplestiltskin. I know what you've summoned."

Emma's head jerked up. She glanced between them surreptitiously, trying to gauge what was going on. Something had happened when she'd defied Gold's order to step aside, when time had literally frozen. And then the total chaos that followed, and Cora's warning that there were other things in the water right now. _Monsters? Like what?_ Yet alarming as that was, it wasn't the important part. She didn't believe for a moment that Cora gave a damn about her personal safety, or that she thought it would be cruel to make Hook lose another woman _– me? Since when am I his woman?_ No. For whatever reason, the witch did not want Emma to pass through the Storybrooke boundary, after she'd just broken her deal with Gold. _He was the one who gave me the power to break the curse. And he was the one who told me that he didn't plan on my magic._

Her heart was hammering in her chest – it was good to know it was still there, at least. But a terrible plan was starting to form in her mind. _If I go through, something's going to happen. Gold owned this town. . . until now. Nobody had ever dared to break a deal with him. Especially nobody who's supposed to be the savior._ She was the offspring of true love. The witch had already failed to take her heart. She might die in some grisly fashion, she might lose her memory herself. . . or she might, at last, become more powerful than Cora.

Emma looked around, desperately judging the likelihood that she'd be able to make a run to the railing, jump overboard, and swim the twenty feet or so from the immobilized _Jolly Roger_ to the Storybrooke boundary, without being zapped by magic, eaten by a monster, or shot by the long nines. Slim. Slim as an anorexic fairy, in fact. But just as she was calculating if it was worth the risk, Hook finally turned around.

"All of you are forgetting something very important," he said conversationally. "This is how it works on my ship. I make the demands. You follow them."

Cora gave him a steely look. "I'm not near finished with you, Captain. As a matter of fact, I am extricating us from the horrible mess that you and your recklessness got us into. The instant I release my spell, the Dark One's beast could spare this ship – or not. Think about that."

Hook might have flinched, but it was hard to tell. A sardonic smile upturned a corner of his mouth, yet his eyes were still black and bitter. "Well then. It looks to be a standoff."

"Looks that way, doesn't it," Gold agreed pleasantly. Neither man had taken his gaze off the other, and the hatred could be smelled as thick as brimstone.

"I can solve that dilemma." Cora raised a hand, and the veil of magic shrouding the _Roger_ momentarily disappeared. It lurched again, sliding and spinning up just half a dozen feet, if that, from the boundary, before she brought it to a halt again. Gold cringed, and sweat was visible on his forehead as he stared at it. Emma saw his mouth shaping around words. _No, Bae, no._

"Can you?" To everyone's shock, particularly Emma's, it was her own voice that had spoken. "I think you're bluffing, Cora. If you could solve it that easily, you would have just put us all through the barrier by now, made Gold forget everything and be on your merry mass-murdering way. Easy as pie. Except you can't. You won't risk me going through too."

"Really?" Cora said. "Won't I?"

"No. You won't." Leaving the witch to chew on that, Emma turned to Gold. "I don't imagine I'm your favorite person right now. That's fine. You're not mine either. But I'm still the sheriff of Storybrooke, and I came out here to rescue Belle. She's my responsibility, and so are you. So I'm going to tell you to jump off the ship right now – walk the plank, if you will – and get rid of whatever creature is in the water before you swim away to shore and think long and hard about what you're going to do next."

"Walk the plank," Hook murmured. "You do make such a delightful pirate, darling."

Emma chose to ignore that. "If you don't," she said to Gold, "so help me God I will throw you through the boundary myself. Got it?"

He gazed back at her with an apparently placid expression, but she didn't miss the virulently ugly look in his eyes. _I've made a serious enemy today._ Yet at last he inclined his head. "As you wish, princess," he answered, with enough false politeness to freeze her ears. He pretended to doff a cap to Cora, then to Hook. "Ladies and gentlemen. My leave."

He turned about smartly, stepped up onto the plank – pirate ships had such things already helpfully installed – and strode to the end. He put his hands together, executed a perfect form dive, and entered the water with barely a splash.

"Yeah." Emma hopped up on the plank after him. "I'm going to be saying sayonara as well. Don't wait up for me."

"Princess," Cora said sweetly. "You're not going anywhere."

"Yeah?" Emma said again. "Then what was that about how you wanted Gold to get me safely off the ship?"

"Well, you yourself have just gotten rid of him for us, so it's time we had a chat." Cora held out her hand. "If you go in the water now. . ."

"I'll take my chances." Emma backed up. "Nothing personal."

And with that, she jumped.

\----------

It was cold. It was really, really fucking cold. She remembered to hold her breath and pinch her nose, plunged under quite a long way, opened her eyes in the smeary grey murk, and began to swim like the dickens. She didn't know which way the Storybrooke boundary was, and didn't dare come up long enough to look – she could hear distant whistles and thumps, saw flaming streaks like meteors pummeling the water around her. She kicked harder and harder, feeling her lungs start to ache, bubbles streaming from her nose as she burned air, looking around frantically for any sign of an unholy specter rising from the deep. What was it? As far as classical aquatic beasts went, the choices were pretty broad. Moby Dick? A giant kraken? Captain Nemo's octopus? The Loch Ness monster? _How about none. Yes, please how about none._

She was going to have to surface for a breath. She kicked up, gasped a lungful of damp air, and ducked as something else screamed overhead. She couldn't tell if Hook had gotten the _Roger's_ guns into commission that fast – she had a vague memory that old-fashioned cannons took time to load – but would he be shooting at _her?_

_Why not?_

Down she went again, deep enough that she could almost see the silty bottom. Her boots were heavy and she wished she could kick them off, as you were supposed to do when you hit the water in your clothes, but they weren't very kick-off-able. Her hands purled the grey dimness, she had to rise up again, and this time when she surfaced, gasping and spluttering, she shot a panicked glance behind her and saw. . . nothing.

 _Right. I'm off the ship, I can't see it anymore._ That thought was even more terrifying; it could be anywhere, it could be right above her, about to run her down. She was gagging on the brackish water, starting to shiver from the shock of the frigid temperatures, and the shore was still a few hundred yards off. Her best hope was to try to hit an incoming tidal current and do a crawl stroke. She hadn't been any kind of swim champion as a kid.

It didn't look like she was anywhere near the boundary; she'd swum away from it instinctively, trying to get clear of the ship, and she definitely didn't have the strength to make it back. Besides, she couldn't see it either. Just her, struggling in the North Atlantic, trying to avoid being carried out to sea. The salt was stinging her eyes, and her soaking, tangled hair was in her face. She shook it out and began to dog-paddle. Who cared if she wasn't winning any medals at the Olympics any time soon. She just wanted to get back to solid ground.

As Emma kicked onwards, feeling about as graceful as a dying frog, she glanced off toward the harbor and saw a small figure – two of them, in fact – running down a pier. A bare few seconds later, a rowboat pulled away from the dock and began to haul ass out to her like nobody's business. Wearily, she turned in that direction, pulling a stroke and then letting her momentum carry her forward, one at a time, just trying to keep her head above water. _Please don't let it be Gold coming back to finish the job._

It wasn't. It was Leroy, rowing like a crazy person, and her father, still quite damp himself, leaning out so far he was in danger of capsizing it. As they got within shouting range, he did just that. "EMMA! HERE!"

A standard-issue white life ring hit the water with a smack a few yards in front of her, its other end anchored firmly in David's hands. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and her next few strokes took her there. She grabbed it and held on, shaking with cold and relief, as he reeled her in like a big fish, until she bobbed up against the rowboat and he grabbed both her arms and pulled her in; she rolled into the bottom, coughing and gasping. He stared at her, speechless, then shook his head and snatched her into a tight, sopping wet embrace.

Emma, teeth chattering like a nutcracker, instinctively stiffened, but managed to instruct herself firmly to hug him back. He gave her a hard squeeze, then let go, smoothing her hair out of her face. "Oh God," he said. "I thought we'd lost you."

"N-not yet. Little m-more resourceful than that." Emma didn't resist when Leroy, leaving David to hold the oars steady, unzipped his fleece jean jacket and wrapped it around her. Of course – he was one of the seven dwarves, he'd want to care about her, she was Snow White's daughter. She was still only barely figuring out all these connections.

With temporary repairs effected, Leroy started rowing back in. Emma was so cramped by the time they bumped against the pier that she could barely stand up, but she waved off David's anxious arm. "It's all right," she muttered. "I got this."

"No," he said firmly. "You don't. Let me, sweetheart. Please."

Again, she glanced at him – hearing that from a guy practically her own age, it felt more like a "sweetheart" from a boyfriend, not a father – but for once, she let him. Still dripping, she let him help her up the path, to the parking lot, to where his old brown truck waited.

\----------

A few hours later, Emma had been stripped out of her wet clothes, bundled in pajamas and blankets, and made about a thousand cups of hot chocolate by her extremely worried mother, while her father paced up and down the living room and swore to kill Hook in increasingly imaginative fashions. Her son, on the other hand, wanted to hear more about the infamous pirate captain, since he wasn't in the book. Of course he wasn't. For whatever reason, he hadn't been sucked out of Fairytale Land when the curse hit, so he wasn't part of the story.

"Does he actually have a hook?" Henry asked eagerly. "He has to, right?"

"Yes, he does." Emma closed her eyes hard, wicking away the memories. "Kid, I'm sorry, but I really, really don't want to talk about him right now."

"You shouldn't have to." David desisted from his pacing to aim a black scowl in everyone's general vicinity. "Henry, your grandmother and I have told you many times that in this world, things aren't like what they are in the stories. I know you're excited about Captain Hook and that whole legend, but he's a very bad man."

"Well, duh." Henry rolled his eyes. "He's a pirate. I know that."

"He almost killed your mother. I don't think you know that."

"Actually. . ." Emma felt hideously uncomfortable talking about it, but emotions were running high right now, she had to clear some things up. "Of all the people on the ship, he did the least amount of trying to kill me. He cut me down from the mast after Gold had tied me up, and. . ." No way did her parents (or Henry, for that matter) need to hear what had happened next. "Just. . . for what it's worth," she finished lamely. "Don't get me wrong. I fully endorse you kicking his smarmy ass. But you. . . maybe don't have to kill him."

David's scowl deepened. "If he lays hand, hook, or any other appendage on you one more time, he's going to _wish_ that he was dead, believe me."

"James," her mother said quietly.

The prince looked like he had something to say to that, but Emma interrupted. "Wait. I have another idea."

"You do?" her parents said in unison.

"Yeah." Emma cleared her throat. With that, she told them about her realization that _something_ had happened when she defied Gold (they were not at all happy to hear why, but didn't interrupt) and that it had something to do with what would happen if she went through the boundary. That since the curse had been created by him, and meant to end with her, something very powerful would take place. That she might rise over Gold and Cora both.

When she finished, David and Mary Margaret looked at each other apprehensively. "Sweetheart," Mary Margaret said at last. "That's a horrible risk. We don't know what happened to us in the Enchanted Forest, or what spells Cora has cast, or what Gold is going to do to you now that you broke your bargain. If you do go. . ."

"No," Emma interrupted, knowing what her mother was going to say. "No, you two can't come with me. The whole _reason_ I told David to jump off that ship was because I didn't want him to lose his memory. I didn't want to lose you again." Oh God, she could feel her throat getting thick. "I know you want to help me now, but. . . you can't."

Mary Margaret was already shaking her head. "No. We have to figure out another way to do it. We won't let you put yourself in that kind of danger, alone."

"I've been alone for twenty-eight years, remember?" It was cruel, and Emma wished she could bite it back as soon as she said it, especially seeing the pain in their eyes, but not enough to apologize for it. "I managed."

"But that was before you knew about magic," Mary Margaret pressed. "Please. Will you promise us that you'll stay with us tonight and think it through?"

Emma was quiet for a very long moment. _Do they know when someone is lying too? Is that where I got it from?_ But her own so-called superpower had been going haywire lately. She couldn't make heads or tails of Hook's motives, if he was close to the truth or unable to see it with the Hubble Telescope. She should have known. But she didn't.

And there might just be only one way to stop this.

"All right," she said. She lifted her head and met their eyes. "I promise."


	11. Reap the Whirlwind

The ship floated in a dark island of mist. There were soft splashes as waves cuffed the sides, and lanterns cast an eerie halo of diffused light about twenty feet into the fog. Beyond that, it was completely black, and more than a little spooky, as if great jaws truly were about to open up and swallow them. Not that Killian Jones held with such rubbish, which was unusual among his kind. Most pirates, fearsome bloodthirsty villains in the ordinary course of things, who'd raid, pillage, plunder, and otherwise swash until they buckled, could be turned into a bunch of knees-knocking, pants-pissing little girls if they glimpsed anything that could be remotely constituted as superstitious. If folk were smart, they'd quit trying to fend pirates off with swords, and just hold up an arseload of black cats. But Killian had seen more than enough over three hundred years of life to know what could really hurt a man. He preferred to worry about what could hurt him back.

Thus, he was exceedingly annoyed with himself for his current nervous state. What was waiting out there in the night, and wanted to kill him, was real enough, so he didn't need to get his bloomers in a bunch about imaginary monsters. Not that he didn't suspect the Dark One more than capable of it, but as it had now been some hours since his uninvited guests had departed the _Jolly Roger_ and good riddance to them, Rumplestiltskin had had plenty of time to summon the beastie back up from the deep, send it after him, and crunch his ship into so much matchwood. Indeed, it was in expectation of this possibility that Killian had anchored not in the harbor, but in a sheltered stretch of cape just out of sight of Storybrooke's main drag. This way, it would be easy for him to jump overboard and make a clean escape if any ominous chomping noises started up from below.

Yet as afternoon faded to evening, and now to full night, it had been so silent and tranquil that he had begun to suspect Cora was yanking his chain. That there had never been any beast in the water at all, and she was playing a trick on his mind. She was gone right now, of course. The witch seemed to pop in and out of existence as she pleased, another sort of trick, to let you think that she was never near but know that she was never far. And what better way to prevent him from following her than to pretend some sort of threat to his beloved _Roger,_ which would keep him – as indeed he was currently doing – pacing the deck with his hand on his sword, as if he truly thought he was going to fight off a sea monster in such fashion? He'd had a few messy tangles with their sort before. He knew not to underestimate them. But there _wasn't_ even one.

Killian stopped in his tracks. "Right," he said aloud. "If there are any unpleasant beasties lurking under here, they're Cora's doing, not the crocodile's." Unless it actually _was_ a giant crocodile, but he pushed that particular horrible thought away. "So if the lot of you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

He whirled around on his heel, making a dramatic exit for the benefit of nobody in particular, and sauntered into his cabin. It still looked somewhat beleaguered from the confrontation it had hosted earlier in the day, with scorch marks everywhere, and Killian scowled. He hadn't come to this world to do any redecorating, but this was a bloody travesty. The witch clearly thought she had the right to wreck his property as she pleased, and that was just not at all –

Killian pulled aside the curtains of his bed, and stopped.

There had been a woman in here, and recently. And not the woman he wanted in it, either. He would have remembered that, and besides, she'd have been naked, which this one hadn't; he knew what bare female skin smelled like on his sheets, even if it was a long damned time since it had been there. Milah was the last one he made love to in here. The women he'd had after that were up against alley walls, in fleabag brothels, in the back rooms of even more tragic taverns. He never took whores onto his ship; they were worse thieves than pirates, would be stuffing coins and jewels down their bodice the instant he turned his back. This bed, here, now. . . it was _his_ place, his own, had been for centuries.

And someone else had been in it.

Killian bared his teeth. Aye, then. This caused something that the Dark One had said earlier to make sudden sense. That his latest wench – Belle – had been rescued from captivity in the captain's own bed. As if _Killian_ was the one who'd kidnapped her, presumably for some nefarious purpose involving fucking. So that was why he'd discovered her and the Swan girl in here. But not because he'd brought them here.

Because Cora had.

All of a sudden, without any further preliminary, Killian spun around and smashed the lantern with his hook, sending a trail of flaming oil across the floor. He kicked it, something that took a certain skill to avoid setting his boot afire, and slammed his hand into the table so hard that it rocked. He'd come out here in the first place to prove a point to Emma; saving her from whatever nasty thing Cora intended was just a natural consequences, he reminded himself. But finding that it had only been part of a worse plot, that bloody _Belle_ had been the one in his bed, that all of this, that Emma had almost. . . he'd called her Milah and she'd jumped into a possibly monster-infested ocean rather than continue to subject herself to his company. Because quite honestly, that looked like the wiser option after Cora. . . after Cora had. . .

Killian stamped out the fire before it could do something furtherly unfortunate to his cabin, then abandoned any thought of going to bed – he couldn't sleep in it now with the stink of the Dark One's woman all over it, especially not after what had happened earlier. _Milah, it's all right. I have you now._ Why had he said that, damn him? Was he really so undone by just his first confrontation with Rumplestiltskin that he'd _forget_ the three hundred years of why he'd been looking for him? Milah was dead. _Dead._ Did he have to pretend he'd forgotten that to justify kissing anyone, for rescuing Emma, for seeing those ropes around her and –

Killian smashed his hook into the wood of the table this time, leaving a long scar down the surface. Then, following an instinct, he crossed the room and opened his trunk.

It was there. Right on top. Before she had departed, Cora had told him that she'd borrowed a gun from the sheriff's station, and she was leaving it with him, as she didn't like such crude and clumsy weapons. If she'd stolen it from Emma's office after ransacking it. . . it must be Emma's gun to start with, and Cora was hoping he'd do something imprudent with it which would thus implicate the princess in the crime. Something like going ashore and shooting David Nolan, Prince sheep-fucking Charming, for the pig's breakfast he'd made of everything earlier.

 _Except no one would ever believe that dear Emma harmed her own father._ Hook's lips drew further back over his teeth. _It would always be me._

He picked up the gun and checked it over. It was slightly more complicated than the flintlock pistols he was accustomed to, which were unreliable in both aim and discharge – he'd known more than one man who'd shot his own family jewels off after sticking a flintlock through his belt – but it didn't take him long to work it out. When he thumbed the magazine open, he also saw that it was loaded and ready for bear, and he clicked its catch off and raised it with one smooth motion. Eyes fixed on his dark image in the mirror at the end of the cabin, he cocked it, pointed it, and shot his own reflection into crashing, splintered shards.

Killian could hear his breathing harsh and lurching in his ears. _There's for your fucking looking glasses, Cora._ He didn't even know what he was going to do, only that the anger was consuming him, gnawing at his vitals like an enraged beaver, and there was no way he was going to sleep tonight. Or do anything else but hunt.

He was out of the cabin and halfway to the railing before it occurred to him that perhaps this was _also_ what the witch had wanted, get him off the ship so the monster could come after it. . . but he was already more than halfway mad, thinking like this would end with him throwing himself into the drink just to make the voices shut up. He wanted to, but not as badly as he wanted revenge. And to get rid of the iron shackles that had closed around his heart, and not from Cora's hand.

Killian Jones jumped up, and took a long walk off a short plank.

 -----------

He was wading ashore only a few minutes later, cold water sloshing in his boots and running down his cheeks like tears, but he couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He'd taken care not to get the gun wet, holding it in his hand, so his swimming had been as awkward as an ugly duckling with a broken wing. _The ugly duckling did grow up to be a swan, though._

Fucking hell, he was not thinking about this now. He shook himself like a dog and shivered, then clambered up onto the rocky coast. Glancing behind him to the dark sea, lit luminously by the full moon, he of course saw nothing – it was as black as the inside of Cora's heart, wherever it was. Not in her chest, as he'd found out in Wonderland, and suddenly it made him curious. She wouldn't keep it inside her, and she wouldn't keep it where someone with a grudge against the Queen of Hearts could find it and crush it. . . so it wasn't here nor there. Could it be where she'd grown up, somewhere important? But where was that? Who was she?

Something else to ponder later. At the moment, he had to decide where he was going. The choices were bountiful. He could hunt down the crocodile's lair directly – a pawnshop, run under the Dark One's assumed name of Gold. He could go back to Emma's apartment and see if Smee was still tied up there (although he doubted it, the slippery bastard would have wriggled out by now). He could locate the Charming family abode, whereupon to commit some act of depravity upon the prince that may or may not involve a literal left hook into his pretty-boy face. He could return to Granny's bed and breakfast and commit the same upon Neal Cassady, although that was certainly _not_ a pretty-boy face and would only be improved by the hook.

Or he could find Emma.

 _And do what, you sodding idiot?_ Enough. Enough. He'd already run after her far too much. Already saved her life twice today alone, at significant risk to his own. He wanted to blame her for distracting her from his revenge, was sick and bloody tired of the way his nerves were rubbed raw around her, not wanting to let her out of his sight, thinking all sorts of strange things about her, imagining what would have happened if it was her in his bed, and not Belle. If it was her skin that his sheets would smell of, the way her blonde curls would fan over the pillows and –

Killian was in danger of either disgusting himself thoroughly, or finding something out about himself that he was not at all ready to face. Whichever it was, he was interrupted by the sound of a large splash from the black ocean, the sight of a wake rippling along palely in the moonlight, too fast and too deliberate to be natural. In fact, to be anything but a –

"Well, slap my arse and paint me purple," Killian murmured. "The beastie is real after all." He couldn't tell if it was coming for him, but the odds were good and getting better every second. Which meant that it was in his interests to get out of the water, and stay out.

The crocodile.

He turned his back as if he had not a care in the world, and started to walk.

\-----------

There wasn't a whole hell of a lot happening in downtown Storybrooke by the time Killian reached it. The storefronts were dark, the doors locked, and if he had been expecting or hoping to run into anyone making another boozy exit from an ill-judged drinking episode, he was disappointed. At least nobody seemed to notice that the infamous Captain Hook was standing right there on their street, but that was mildly insulting as well, as Killian prided himself on drawing a crowd. And not to mention, he was sorely spoiling for a fight. Just let someone try to kick up a fuss – or better yet, confront him themselves. With pistol, sword, and hook, he'd be a match for three or four at least. And then, if he'd behaved so badly, they'd have no choice but to summon the sheriff. And _then –_

 _Stuff it, Jones. You're daft, you're bloody daft._ Indeed, Killian had not felt this out of control for a long time, and it scared him. You didn't survive this long, against the enemies he was up against, by making stupid mistakes and acting in the heat of the moment. To make a point (damned if he knew what) he turned sharply and started down the street, unable to stop himself from stealing a glance over his shoulder when something rustled in the trees. He didn't _think_ that crocodiles were able to move very quickly on land, but that assumed that whatever was after him was actually a crocodile, and that it had stayed in that form.

Up ahead, he could see the spire of the town library, and quickened his pace, eyeing it evilly enough that if he'd caught sight of himself in a mirror, he should have turned to stone. _No, I shot the looking glass._ But something or someone was definitely following him. And if so –

Running away had never been his style. He burned to a halt, drew the pistol from his belt, and whirled around, ready to blow sky-high anything that dared to so much as twitch. Look how well he was doing in this godforsaken world – he'd learned its tricks, he was brandishing one of its weapons. And someone was definitely there, two of them, emerging out of the shadows beneath the library, and all he had to do was –

A light went on above him, from the black iron pole, silhouetting him in yellow glow. He snarled, pulled the trigger, and heard only a pathetic, empty click.

Two men stepped into the street directly in front of him.

"There you go," said Neal Cassady, pointing. "That's him."

"You have been _very_ helpful, dearie," a familiar voice replied. "Now run along. It's going to get messy. You won't want to watch."

Obediently, Cassady turned and skedaddled.

The Dark One raised his cane with a ghastly grin.

Killian dropped the useless gun, drew his sword, and lunged.

 -----------

Emma put one foot down and tested her weight cautiously before she added the other. The steps in this old house were creaky bastards, and the last thing she needed was to wake up her entire family before she got out the door. She felt guilty that she had to sneak out like this, but the alternative was worse. She'd toyed with the idea of leaving a note, just in case things went _really_ badly, but ultimately decided against it. If she didn't do this, they would all have far bigger fish to fry. _Possibly literally,_ she thought, remembering the warnings of monsters in the ocean.

She reached the bottom of the stairs without any incidents, and stole across the dark foyer, pulling up the zipper of her leather jacket and crunching down a beanie over her blonde curls. Then she stealthily opened the cabinet, and reached inside.

She felt awful about this part (even more than the rest). Really, she did. She wasn't planning to leave her parents without a way to defend themselves or anything like that. But having seen how handy Mary Margaret was with both a blade and a bow and arrow, she somehow doubted they were going to be sitting around and wringing their hands. And her first magical battle in this world, against the dragon in the library basement, had happened with this weapon in hand. She wasn't going up against something that might be her last without it.

Carefully, Emma eased her father's sword out of the cupboard, then buckled it around her waist. _Maybe it's not magic I need, as much as trust._ But if so, shouldn't she have trusted herself to walk up to David, tell him what she was doing, and ask to borrow this, instead of filching it from the cabinet at midnight like a thief? _But I am a thief._

She pressed her lips together. No, she couldn't wake him up and inform him that she was taking his sword and heading out into the night to battle a horde of unknown enemies while not knowing what would happen once she went across the boundary. Trust couldn't get in the way of the right action. She'd told herself that back on the beanstalk as well.

 _No. I will get Captain Hook out of my head right now._ She should have had something more colorful to call him, but she was having trouble coming up with quite as good an insult now, after he'd saved her life. Another encounter with him was certain to provide one, however. Not that she wanted it. Really. She didn't.

Too bad her gun was still missing. God knew what Cora had done with it after stealing it from the sheriff's office, and even as much as she liked the weight of the sword around her waist, Emma fervently hoped that she wasn't bringing the proverbial knife to a gun fight. Then again, she'd seen just how much use her gun had been against the dragon and the ogre – in a word, zero – and this sword had come from that other world, Fairytale Land. If magic was going to be involved, as it almost undoubtedly was, this was her best bet.

Everything was ready. Emma clenched her shaking fists to steady them, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. If she was the religious type, now would have been the time to pray, but she wasn't. Still, it didn't feel right to totally blow it off. "Okay, God," she muttered. "Not gonna ask for things to go well, since I know they won't. Just don't let me screw it up too badly, and don't let my parents lose their shit and do something dumb. And please keep Henry out of danger. Yeah. Okay. Amen, or whatever."

Considerations for her soul concluded, Emma tiptoed across the hall and reached the front door, holding her breath. She undid the deadbolt, twisted the latch, and opened it, then stepped out.

And almost ran directly into the dark figure standing on the front porch.

The shock gurgled up her throat, desperate to escape as a scream, but she choked it back with a terrible effort. She clawed at the sword, wondering madly which of them it was, but then hands emerged and clutched back at her, a voice hissing in her ear. "Please! Please don't! I'm sorry! I didn't know anywhere else to go!"

Sense belatedly trickled back into Emma's numb brain. _"Belle?"_

"I'm sorry," the young woman said again. Tear tracks were visible on her cheeks, and she was carrying a bag that appeared to contain all her worldly goods. "I went to your apartment, but nobody was there. So I was hoping to come over here. . . Ruby's on wolf time, I couldn't go to her. I won't stay long, I promise. Just one night. If they – if your parents – "

"Belle." Emma gripped her by the shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

Belle bit her lip. "I left Mr. Gold," she blurted out at last. "He was. . . tonight, there was no reasoning with him, he was monstrous. He boasted that he was going over to Granny's to get something to make a tracking spell, for – for him. Hook. He's going to hunt him down and take him to the boundary, he's ready to test a new spell for getting across it, and – "

"And he's going to use Hook as a guinea pig," Emma finished. "After I stopped him and ordered him to get off the ship today, to prevent him from going through that very boundary. He knows there's something up with it, and he's going to break it."

Belle looked miserable. "I'm sorry. I don't know what it is."

"No, that's all right. You've been. . . very helpful. How about you just. . . go in and up to my room? Keep the door closed, and your head under the covers. . . and they'll just maybe. . . not notice." Emma turned Belle back toward the house. "Be careful. The stairs creak."

"Wait – you're not going _after_ them?"

"What did you expect me to do?" Emma jumped off the porch, and broke into a run across the wet grass, stuffing the key into the driver's side door of David's truck and wrenching it open. "And one other thing. Please don't tell my parents."

\-----------

Killian Jones had tasted his own blood before, but never in quite as humiliating circumstances as these. The Dark One had caught his blow as easily as if swatting aside a gnat, twisting his cane in order to send Killian's sword cartwheeling out of his hand, and then spun said cane around like a quarterstaff to block the second incoming blow from his hook. Rumplestiltskin had not been able to rip it out of its brace, but he'd decided not to waste time with such trifles. Instead he pulled the cane back, and smashed Killian across the face.

While Killian was still trying to feel with his tongue to see if any teeth had been knocked loose, the crocodile clicked his fingers. Magical black lashes twisted up Killian's arms, and when he tried to take a step, they slithered around his legs as well. He wavered on the spot, then crashed headlong, unable to break his fall.

That had landed Killian, trussed and tied like a hog for slaughter, in his current position in the back bench of the Dark One's sleek black automobile. He'd been gnawing on his bonds, trying energetically to free himself, until at a further languid gesture from Rumplestiltskin, they almost crawled down his throat. He spat them out, twisted his head around and snarled, "Fucking _Neal Cassady?_ Of all people? You must be getting bloody desperate."

He saw the Dark One smile unpleasantly in the mirror. "It was a fortunate coincidence. It didn't take much work to find out that you'd rented a room at Granny's. When I came by to collect items for a tracking spell – it was _very_ careless of you to leave those clothes there, by the way – our shared friend Mr. Cassady was present as well, and very eager to assist me in my search. He was happy to tell me that you'd lied to him, manipulated him, and threatened him at swordpoint, and validated when I told him that you did that to everyone. Particularly to hear that your worst designs were upon Miss Swan."

Killian tried to think of words bad enough to respond to this, but even his capacious linguistic abilities were falling short. "Oh," he growled. "Aye, of course. Because _I_ was the one to tie her to the mast and try to kill her."

"She broke a deal. It was a warning." Rumplestiltskin shrugged. "I _certainly_ wasn't the one to slash at her with a sword and force myself upon her while mumbling an old lover's name. I'm sure she found that terribly romantic."

Killian redoubled his struggles. "Untie me, you poxy whoreson, and let's see who – "

"Temper, temper, Captain." The crocodile steered around a curve in the dark road, and a green sign appeared in its front lamps. _Now leaving Storybrooke._ "Almost."

With that, Rumplestiltskin stopped the automobile, set the brake, and climbed out, then came around the side to seize Killian by the hair and drag him out, still tied hand and foot, onto the pavement. "As for your intentions towards Miss Swan, even a blind Cyclops would be in no doubt. But as it happens, you're going to help us both."

"I wouldn't count on it."

The Dark One casually removed Emma's pistol from his pocket, the same one Killian had tried to shoot him with, and cocked it with a click. "Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, please. Like you're really going to shoot me." Killian wriggled around, trying to get his hook in position to saw at the black cords around his wrists. Blood was still running into his mouth from the ragged gash along his temple, where the heavy bronze tip of Rumplestiltskin's cane had caught him. "You're very brave, to only dare approach me when I'm tied up. You want a contest, then? Take these ribbons off."

"I am not interested either in your bluster or your fighting prowess, dearie." Rumplestiltskin flicked his fingers, and the cords tightened and jerked around Killian's legs, forcing him to his feet like a badly strung puppet. "Here's what we're going to do. Childishly simple. When I say so, you're going to walk to that sign there, and step over the edge."

"You realize I'm a stupid bloody choice for this demented little experiment, don't you? I was never affected by your curse in the first place, so however I react is going to tell you nothing about how anyone else – "

"I thought you'd say that." Rumplestiltskin indicated the dark, writhing cables knitting up most of Killian's available limbs. "That there is a remnant of the magic I used to create the curse in the first place, so it will admirably simulate the effects on you. _Dearie._ So if you black out, or lose your memory, or incinerate into a small pile of ashes, I'll know what to refine. You can take comfort in that I feel the formula is mostly complete."

"And then what? You kill me?"

The Dark One's smile this time was, in fact, a crocodile's. "More or less."

"You're out of your bloody mind, and I wouldn't piss on you to put you out if you were on fire, much less this. Go on, then. Shoot me. But Cora placed an enchantment on me, so that if anyone tries to kill me. . . well. . ." It was an utter bluff, but Killian was running out of ideas.

"That's a bluff."

Fuck.

Killian could _hear_ the boundary somehow, crackling behind him. Hear the night wind blowing harder and harder, rising to an eerie, whining pitch that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The trees were bending almost in half, and his leather coat was flapping like a gunshot against his legs; it might be a real gunshot in a second. And then, something else.

"Let him go, Gold." The voice came out of the darkness just behind the automobile, hard and flat and utterly resolute. "I'm not going to ask twice."

A faint expression, unreadable, passed over the Dark One's face. Then he turned with one of solicitous, false concern. "Miss Swan. Playing with Daddy's sword again? That's quite dangerous."

"Yes, you son of a bitch. Especially since you tricked me last time, stole the true love elixir, and would have killed my son to fulfill your own little plots." Of all the impossible things, it _was_ the sheriff herself, advancing out of the night with both hands clutched tightly around the hilt of her father's blade. She had never, to Killian's eyes, looked lovelier.

"Miss Swan," said Gold – it was Gold this time. "You are doing what here?"

"Aside from the fact that I told you earlier today to think long and hard about what you were going to do next? I hate to break it to you, but this was a really dumb decision." Emma jerked the tip of the sword at Killian. "Even dumber than some of his, and that's saying a lot. And as to how I knew where to find you, it happens that Belle told me. When she turned up on our doorstep."

That did throw Gold. "Wha – Belle?"

"Yes!" Emma was having to scream over the howling wind. "She wasn't too pleased with what you were up to! So you better turn off this storm you're conjuring up, and let me do the thing you ensured that I was born for! _Now!"_

"Miss Swan – it's not my storm – "

Emma started to shout something back at him, but Killian didn't hear it. All he heard now was the strange moan, see the bare trees peeled back, see the automobile rocking on its wheels, see dust rising in a vortex, and see the dark clouds reaching, grasping, cycling down toward the ground and all three of them. And just then, suddenly, he understood.

A tornado.


	12. Runs in the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. . . my sister is still in the hospital and I'm back in grad school with a redonkulous workload, so updates are going to be a bit thin on the ground. But I had some unexpected free time tonight (hooray for homework efficiency) so I decided to crank this out. Also, since the show's started up again, this is obviously now AU, and my canon-y purist-y sensibilities feel weird about writing a story that's becoming more non-canon every week. But I *will* keep going with this, have no fear, and will probably incorporate some events from the new season as is appropriate. Please do have patience! I am so addicted to Captain Swan that I couldn't stop if I tried. Grazie, merci, thank ya, etc etc. The support of my readers has been instrumental in this tough time.

Stupidly enough, the first thought Emma had was to make a break for it.

Like that was going to make a difference. She knew about tornados. Giant whirling screaming incidences of Mother Nature throwing gang signs and saying, "Fuck you, bitch, your argument is invalid." In Boston you didn't get them, you just got sideswiped by the occasional slow-moving Atlantic hurricane or perfect-storm nor'easter, but she'd seen pictures of their aftermath, miles of matchsticks and overturned cars and torn-up tarpaulins where perfect white-picket-fence suburbs used to stand. And knowing that, her second and equally stupid thought was to jump back in the truck and try to outrace it back to town, try to give them the barest warning. But that was absurd. It would pick her and the truck up, and fling them away.

" _This is your last chance!"_ Her scream tore up her throat. _"GOLD! STOP IT!"_

He'd said it wasn't him. Her little superpower wanted to agree, but as she'd already proven, it couldn't be trusted anymore. And now they were face to face with the monstrosity tearing up the ground, exploding dust and tree branches into eerie towers, roaring like a jet engine on steroids. Panicking, she stared at the sword still clenched in her fist, the dawning awareness of what she was going to have to do with it if Gold – if the Dark One – didn't stop –

But why would he want Storybrooke destroyed now, before he'd had a chance to send Hook through the boundary and understand what would happen if he did? It was too all-out murderous, _far_ too likely to inflict collateral damage, and definitely going to harm Belle and the library and the pawn shop and everything else. And that meant –

"Cora." Emma wasn't sure if she said it aloud; she certainly couldn't hear herself over the scream of the storm. But she knew it beyond doubt, could see the faint purplish sparks shedding off the funnel cloud as it roared down the quiet two-lane highway, straight toward all three of them – her, Gold, and Hook, entangled in whatever the hell Gold had tied him up in. Gold was, for that matter, pointing something that looked a heck of a lot like her own gun at Hook's head, as if the situation needed any more inducement whatsoever to go up with a bang, and Emma turned and waved her arms frantically. "No! No, don't! It's her! It's Cora, _Cora!"_

"Looks that way, dearie," the Dark One answered matter-of-factly; it must have been some magic that she was able to hear him at all. "I'm glad you realized it in time to prevent yourself from slandering my reputation. Now, if you'll give me just a moment, I'll be with you in a jiffy. I have waited so _very_ long to do this, it's cruel to make me wait."

He cocked the gun. Emma stared at him for a – despite the roar and whine of the approaching aforesaid meteorological fuck-you – totally paralyzed moment. So this was what it was. Stop the tornado and save her family and Storybrooke, or stop Gold and save Hook.

She didn't know what was worse: that this was even a dilemma, or that she was so perilously close to choosing the latter. But no. She couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing neither of them could hear it, not wanting them to, not knowing why she said it, not daring to think why. Then she turned around and sprinted headlong toward the storm.

Now. Of all moments, it had to be now. Wrenching, concentrating, pulling up that magic in her, born at the uttermost end of need. Flinging out her hands, feeling her skin ripple and distort, her hair blown out as she struggled against the sheer weight of the behemoth bearing down on her. She _could_ definitely feel it, the energy circulating and snarling, feeding on itself, whirling and gnawing and devouring like a rabid giant. _Oh god, speaking of things I never, ever want to meet._ But inch by inch, she shoved her own bright glowing thread into it, feeling almost sick from the force of the dark magic crashing against her shields, the dark magic that was propelling it so perilously close to everything she knew and loved.

Her father's sword was glowing like an electric farm in her hand. She feel the channeling, the loop closed in her own body; no wonder she was shaking so hard. It was slowing. It was slowing. It wasn't going to –

The tornado hit the Storybrooke boundary, and stopped dead.

Emma stared at it, gasping, sweat drenching her hair and trickling down her back. It was still whirling and churning and grinding into the pavement just six feet from her, if that, but it wasn't going any further, as if it had slammed up against some invisible wall. _Or because the curse is the only thing protecting us._ If she went through it now, if she broke it. . .

But her magic –

It _was_ tied up with the curse, had been from the start –

"You look puzzled, my dear." It was a horribly familiar voice that spoke, and the curtain of cloud parted to reveal Cora, not a hair out of place, stepping out as if disembarking from a plane. She was extremely careful, Emma noticed in her current state of numb stupefaction, not to touch the actual boundary itself – which had to mean something. "Can I assist?"

Emma didn't dare look behind her. She hadn't heard a gunshot, but that didn't mean anything. "Yeah, actually. How are you always fucking everywhere?"

"Because I don't play by your sad little rules." Cora gave a sleek shrug, gauzy cobalt shawl rippling in the unhealthy glow. "Someone with less motherly patience than I would have gotten quite tired of your continuing attempts to do so, especially when your awakening to your true power is dependent on you. . . not."

"On me doing what? Turning to the dark side? I'm sorry, Darth Vaderette, but in this case, you're _not_ my father and this is not happening. I'm going to take a cue from our mutual friend here, and ask if you'd like to make a deal."

Cora laughed aloud. "Oh, this will be _rich._ Your Highness, I am all ears."

"Fine." Emma stared at her. "You shut off your little wind tunnel there, and buy a car or some rollerblades or even a damn horse and donkey like a good fairy-tale woman, so you're not popping out of thin air whenever you feel like it. It's getting old."

"That's one of the rules I don't play by, princess. But how uncouth of me to interrupt. Continue."

"Yeah. You get rid of that storm, and in exchange, I won't jump through the boundary right now."

She was watching Cora's face very closely as she said it, and she was certain that the witch flinched, ever that little bit. But if so, it was quickly washed away in scorn as she laughed. "That's such a bargain. You won't commit suicide if I don't destroy Storybrooke and everything in it? Either way, princess, I win, and I win in spades. You have nothing to offer, so just – "

"I wouldn't count on it."

Both Cora and Emma turned sharply, just in time to see Gold step away from Hook – who was still tied up, but didn't seem to have been shot – and stroll toward them, casually flipping the pistol and placing it through his belt. "The tornado is a nice touch, dearie, very nice. I suppose it's a little homage to where you came from, though after what you promised me to get away from there. . . you _do_ disappoint me."

 _Where she came from?_ Emma stared a moment more, before it clicked. Gold had already told her that Regina's grandfather, Cora's father-in-law, was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and she herself had speculated that that made Cora the Wicked Witch from some damn direction or other. And tornadoes _were_ supposed to get you to Oz (that was, if they didn't just do the usual thing, and bust your shit up). Thus far, with the exception of the brief moment of when Emma had stopped her from taking her heart, Cora had seemed all but invincible. But both Wicked Witches had been killed by apparently pedestrian means – one by a falling house, the other with a bucket of water. Maybe it wasn't a bucket of water from here, but a bucket of water from _there. . ._

A horrible plan started to form in Emma's mind as she stared at the still-immobilized tornado. No. No, she couldn't. It was the epitome of selfishness, leaving her family behind again, to face Cora on their own. No more portal jumps. No. No. Especially since it would mean –

"I don't think you need those, my dear Captain," Cora remarked, waving a hand negligently. Emma, twisting around, saw the writhing black cords vanish from Hook's limbs; he straightened up with a look that would, if it was a person, currently be awaiting incarceration for first-degree murder. Step by step, like a great hunting jungle cat, lithe and elegant and totally deadly, he started toward them.

"No closer." Gold removed the pistol from his belt, clicked the safety off, and aimed.

" _This_ is what you call a rock and a hard place, mate?" The pirate spread his hands – well, hand and hook. His grin was downright insane. "Like you, I'm disappointed. I was hoping for more from the all-powerful Dark One. A plague of locusts or a rain of blood at least. Instead, just that wee toy?"

"You think it's a toy, do you?" Gold took better aim at Hook's chest. "Take one more step, laddie, and we can find out."

"Men." Cora rolled her eyes at Emma. "Always think they know best, don't they? Only one way to solve every problem. Shall we step back and let them get on with it?"

"Actually." Emma raised the sword. "You'll never hear me say this again, but I think Gold has the right idea in this case. At least when it comes to what should be done with you."

"You're never going to hurt me with that dinner knife. It'll just break it, and that would be a tragedy. Not to mention – " Cora raised a hand – "it would certainly induce me to send the tornado into Storybrooke."

"Too bad. I guess I'll just have to jump."

"Into that? Be my guest."

Emma hesitated, staring at the wall of seething cloud. This was an awful, unconscionable bluff to call, and if she got it wrong, the repercussions would be literally cataclysmic. If the curse was what was keeping this beast out, and she jumped in. . . well, on the bright side, no more Storybrooke, so it was a fond hope that Cora would think her work was done, then pack up and go home. On the bad side, no more Storybrooke. No more anything, all too likely including her.

But if this was it, the choice –

At that moment, Emma Swan was completely at a loss. Fifty-fifty. Toss of a coin. As likely to die as to live, as likely to win as to lose. Stay here. Or go – God knew where. Yeah, jump into a tornado, that was really fucking smart. Even in her ridiculous life, it would still make the top five stupidest moments. Last time it had been the portal, and look at _that_. She had to stay here. It was the only way to defeat Cora. The only way. None of this bullshit about Oz and finding a weapon there. It was here. Her heart was here. Emma's, at least. As for Cora's. . .

No. Her mind was made up. She wasn't running away again. Even if fucking Neal was here, she would deal with it, reasonably and competently and sanely and like an adult. There was no power in the world that could make her budge. Confident, at last, in her decision, she set her feet and held the sword tight and smiled.

And then fucking Killian Jones turned and started to sprint hell-for-leather (which was kind of what he was, hell in leather) directly at her.

Emma opened her mouth to scream.

The gun in Gold's hand went off with a monstrous bang.

Hook staggered, but he didn't stop. He kept on coming, then lowered his head, and Emma felt her fingers jerk open on the hilt of the sword, felt it fall away, as he hit her full-on, in a flying rugby tackle. His arms went around her, pressing her face into his neck, wrapping her into his body. She could feel a wetness seeping into her shirt from his shoulder – blood, oh God it was blood, Gold had shot him, what was he doing, the hell, the _fuck_ was he doing –

The next instant, they hit the tornado with a howl, with whiplash a hundred, thousand times worse than a car accident. The wind snatched them up, a tasty morsel, whirling everything into greyness and nothingness and shock, and they were gone like smoke.

\---------

"Snow?" David Nolan reached up in sleepy concern to pull his wife back down next to him in bed; she'd just sat bolt upright and screamed like a banshee, which was no doubt going to wake up Henry and everyone within a six-block radius. "Sweetheart! What's wrong?"

"It's her." Mary Margaret's voice was a moan. "It's Emma. She's – she's in terrible danger, I saw it. Oh God, we never should have let her out of our sight – oh God – "

"Calm down. Calm down." David kept hold of her. "It was just a dream. Just a dream, I promise Emma's still here, just down the hall, and everything's all right. She promised us she wouldn't go anywhere tonight, and we have to trust her. She's our daughter, but she's a grown adult and we can't treat her like a little girl." Considering what he had been doing earlier, this was potentially a bit hypocritical, but he had jumped off the _Jolly Roger_ and left her behind, when every nerve ending in him, every pore, every atom, had screamed at him to stay and defend his daughter. But she'd ordered him, and he'd kept that promise. He had to trust that she had done the same.

"I – no. I have to go look." Mary Margaret was already putting on her slippers, like a new mother with a fussy baby. _We never had that chance,_ Charming thought with a pang. Never a chance to wake and walk with Emma in the night, or see her first steps or hear her first words. But that was another old guilt he had to get rid of, for even if the beginning had been missed, there was still a chance to write a new ending. "It was so clear, I saw her. . ."

"All right." He wanted her to see, if it would soothe her fears. But, deciding to be a supportive mate, he crawled reluctantly out of his warm, comfortable nest of quilts – that fight today had taken it out of him, twenty-eight years was apparently not insignificant even if he _had_ spent most of it in a coma – and put an arm around his wife's waist. Together, they walked down the dark hall to their daughter's room, and Mary Margaret opened the door.

Sure enough, there was a lumpy, shapeless form tucked into bed, breathing slowly and deeply; Emma had somehow managed not to jerk awake at her mother's scream. It did seem to David that the hair on the pillow was too dark, and the sound of the breathing somewhat different, but then, he'd never had a chance to watch Emma sleep before. He told himself to savor the moment, not quibble over details.

Mary Margaret sagged with relief, and David kissed the top of her head. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on the floor, which he didn't remember Emma owning, but then again, he had respected her privacy and not gone snooping through her possessions, even while he and his grandson were living in the apartment together and praying for their women to come home. So they simply stood there, reassuring themselves, then shut the door and started back to their own room. Just as astoundingly, Henry was still asleep too.

The Charmings tumbled back into bed together, and David smiled at his wife. "There. Do you feel better?"

"A little," Mary Margaret admitted, but there was still a line between her brows. "It was just. . . so clear. She was caught up in a horrible dark cloud, falling, and falling, and there was blood and someone clutching her, and. . ." She shook her head. "No, you're right, it was a dream. Let's go back to sleep. It'll be all right in the morning."

"Mmm-hmm," David murmured. Soft oblivion was already reaching up for him, and he didn't resist.

\---------

Emma was falling and falling. The horizon had no meaning and was over and over and over and sky was ground and ground did not exist and Hook was still holding onto her like grim death and whenever this acid trip stopped she was going to kill him and kill him thoroughly. They were never going to stop, however. They just kept falling, over and over and over. His dark stubble abraded her face and said face was still in his neck and arms around her and well that made sense because she couldn't let go of him either if she wanted and over and over and over and yeah she wasn't even going to be able to stand _up_ at the end of this and that would be a problem since she had to kill him and over and over and over _and over and_

The bottom smashed up out of nowhere. The fall was never going to stop, and then it did, hard enough that Emma couldn't figure out, with what few bedazzled brain cells remained to her, why it didn't just kill them and break all their bones then and there. But they were rolling, flailing, kicking, still entangled, lurching and spinning and swearing at each other – or at least she was swearing, and he was answering in wheezing gasps that sounded vaguely like swearing. They hit something, although she couldn't see what, and spun off, and then finally, finally, almost anticlimactically, came to a halt. Just for a final insult, she was pinned under him, and he was sprawled out on her at full length, which _really_ could look compromising if someone came along. Anyone. The last place she wanted to be was under Captain Hook.

Which was really why she should move.

When she got there.

After a few useless heaves, Emma shoved at his shoulder. "Get. Off."

"So kind of you," he murmured. Something sounded wrong about his voice, and not just the lack of breath. "To think of my pleasure."

"Shut up." She was going to lose it herself, have a psych-ward-worthy breakdown, just give her a second. But she could feel the wet warmth still pulsing into her shirt from his shoulder, and remembered. _Oh. Damn._

Emma jerked, shoved him off, and saw him fall with a grunt, far more heavily than he had fallen when she'd punched him back at Lake Nostros. And saw the neat bullet hole in his leather jacket, and the color of his face. Not to mention the color of his shirt.

"Oh. . . shit. Shitshitshitshitshit." It was suddenly the only word she seemed capable of saying. Her hands were turned into two blocks of wood and killing him was going to have to wait, just a minute until it would be more sportsmanlike. She ripped off her jacket, then realized that leather wasn't going to work very well at soaking up blood. _"Shitshitshitshit."_ She jerked off her shirt; thank _God_ she was wearing a wifebeater under it. The snarky comment opportunities were awful, but she tore off the shirt, rendered it into strips, and turned it into an impromptu bandage, pressing hard on his shoulder. The bastard had taken a bullet for her, right before apparently attempting to kill her himself – taken her away from stopping Cora, saving her family –

Hook stirred under her ministrations. His eyes were almost rolled back in his head, but his good hand came up and tried to knock hers away. "Just. . . leave it. I've. . . lived too long. . . I'm a bloody worthless human anyway, don't pretend otherwise, I won't. . ."

"Melodramatic son of a bitch," Emma snapped, switching out the blood-soaked strip of shirt for another. "You really should try out for Hamlet."

"Who's Hamlet?" His long eyelashes fluttered.

"Never mind. Rate things are going, I'll meet him before too long."

"Ah." Hook's bleary gaze focused on her, and a crooked grin spread across his lips. "I knew. . . I could get you. . . to take off your clothes for me, love."

"One more comment like that, one more _love_ or _sweetheart_ or _darling_ or misogynistic infantilizing pet name since you're completely incapable of dealing with women who aren't _total psychopaths_ and/or imprisoned and helpless and/or being suckered in by your pretty face, and so help me God I will get up and let you bleed to death right here."

"Go for it." A taunting gleam passed through his blue eyes, then was blurred out by pain, but the smirk remained. "Love."

Emma growled. The proper thing to do, of course, was to carry out her threat, to get up and walk away in this _otherwhere,_ wherever the hell she was. . . but she didn't know, and she'd get lost, and she wasn't going to let go of the satisfaction of ordering him to account for why he'd just tackled her into a tornado. Oh fuck, _where_ were they?

It was dark to every side, and endlessly so. Just soft nothingness. No Storybrooke, no harbor, no trees, no road, no car – and, it went without saying, no Cora and no Gold. There was a faint sound, however, like distant waves. A smell of salt. Something soft and spongy underfoot, like silt. . . like the very bottom of the sea.

"Oh Jesus Christ on a cracker," Emma said aloud. "Are we in Davy Jones' Locker?"

"What?" Hook looked surprised.

"Davy Jones. . . oh _Jesus,_ don't tell me he's a relative of yours."

"First cousin. . . once or twice. . . removed. Frightening fellow. . . even before he turned slimy." Hook looked even more surprised. "Tried to avoid him, m'self. Sort who always ruined. . . family get-togethers. How'd you. . . know that?"

"Lucky guess," Emma muttered, feeling sick to her stomach. Not that this meant they _were_ in Davy Jones' Locker, but it wasn't an encouraging sign. Aside from the fact that Davy Jones' first cousin once or twice removed was still bleeding heavily under her hands, and it was increasingly plain that the flimsy strip of her fruitlessly sacrificed shirt wasn't going to cut it. "Scurvy seadogs, huh? Both of you?"

"Runs. . . in the family." Hook managed a weak grin, then frowned. "And I can't remember. . . how I remember that, since I haven't. . . in centuries. Too long. As I said. I'll have it over. You haven't. . . stormed away yet. . . depriving me both of my death. . . and a fine parting view. . . of your exquisitely shaped backside."

" _Motherfucker."_ Emma would have punched him again. If he was in any shape to take a punch, even a fake one. "You are _not_ going to die on me."

"Why not?" Hook asked, quite practically. "You have. . . no use for me. Let me. . . snuff it, then get back to your life. . . your son. . ." His face twisted in agony. "No more reason for the crocodile to go. . . on the prowl. Everything back to normal. Isn't that. What you want?"

"Stop talking," Emma ordered. "You're not dying because I'm the sheriff, and I say so. Also because I don't do what Gold says, and also because you saved my life. And _also_ because you're not daring to die until you tell me why the hell you tried to kill both of us."

"Bossy bint," Hook murmured, coughing blood. It showed black on his lips, in the shine of whatever eerie seaweed phosphorescence lit this place. "But fetching. Very fetching."

"Yeah, well, that runs in _my_ family." Emma tried to get her fingers to match the glow. _Come on, magic. I just had you._ Unless whatever she had done to stop the tornado had been a total lie, but she didn't think so. Her power was here, it had just manifested, but she'd been thinking of saving her family when it did. Not Hook, not him, but. . .

She _could_ still get up and walk away. Or just stick with the bloodsoaked shirt. Either would, in fact, eventually kill him. It would probably hurt. No one could say Hook didn't deserve it.

_Son. Of. A. Bitch._

Emma closed her eyes again. Concentrated as hard as she possibly could, shutting out the turmoil about how she was God knew where, again, with the worst possible person to be stranded with. About how he'd kissed her and her stomach fell when he breathed, _Milah._ All of that. Just her. Emma. Just her prickly, flawed, vulnerable, angry, passionate soul. Just hers.

Just his.

She felt the glow crackle down her fingers before she was consciously aware of it. Then it was coming faster and faster, as if a dam had been broken, so much that she was actually frightened of frying them both. Then Hook jerked and moaned, and she felt something cool and metal pop into her hand.

Emma held up the bullet, somewhat mashed and deformed by its adventures through the pirate captain's right clavicle. "Want it for a souvenir?" she panted.

"I'll pass." Hook spoke through gritted teeth, then pushed himself upright, rolled to the side, and retched.

When he finally straightened up, wiping his mouth, Emma saw that the wound certainly wasn't healed all the way – it was red and angry-looking, would leave a scar, a new one, as he probably had quite a few. Not that she wanted to go searching for them. But it _was_ neatly sealed shut, the bleeding had stopped, and he had recovered enough to start swearing properly, which was –

Encouraging? Good? Had she really been about to think that? She was sitting in an undershirt in the middle of neverwhere, and she had to get back. They had hit the tornado before they hit the boundary, which meant that she hadn't gotten through and broken it. Yes, it might have kept the tornado from hitting Storybrooke, but she still needed to go through, that wasn't an excuse –

"You." She wheeled back on her no-longer-quite-as-in-imminent-danger-of-death companion, and stuck a finger under his nose. "Start talking, amigo."

"You do know just how to woo a man." Killian's breathing sounded better as well, less as if there was blood in his lungs, and the cocky smirk was returning to his face in full force, so she took that as a sure sign that he was, for better or worse, going to live. "Can't you just sit there and take off that other shirt of yours? Doesn't suit a beautiful woman like you."

"Look, Hook. I'm trying to have a conversation that doesn't involve constant inappropriate sexual come-ons to someone who is _not interested._ I know that's hard for you, but make an effort." Her voice cracked unexpectedly, and she had to smudge the back of her hand hard across her face. "Please."

His eyes flicked up to hers, and she could see that he had a whole arsenal of sarcastic comments loaded and ready for bear, something about how the lady doth indeed protest far too much. But something about her tears seemed to reach him, and he sighed. "Fine. I was getting you out of there for two reasons. One, because I was hoping you'd go through the boundary, shatter whatever nasty curse is on it, and spare me the need to serve as the Dark One's test case. Quite obviously, the tornado got us first, a misjudgment for which I sincerely apologize. Two, because even though we _did_ end up in the tornado, all hope is not lost. I was rolling the dice that we. . ." He paused. "That we could get to Oz."

Emma's stomach turned over. "Well then," she said lightly, trying to disguise it. "Looks like that one came up snake eyes, gambler. And _why_ were you doing that? Exactly?"

His gaze held hers, very seriously. "How much do you want to get rid of Cora, love?"

She hesitated even longer. This was for some ulterior motive of his own. They were in unholy cahoots, he probably had to just say the word and the witch would fish him out of here. Perhaps literally, if they were in fact in the Locker. Blocking out the mental image of a giant worm on a hook (dammit! No hooks!) dangling down in the blackness above them, she said neutrally, "You can probably guess the answer to that."

"Maybe I can." His finger touched her chin. "And maybe you could look at me."

"Yeah, Mr. I'm-Done-With-You? Like the magic bean? That was how you got here, wasn't it?"

"Not _here,_ strictly speaking, but to Storybrooke, yes."

"And you brought Cora with you. Forgive me if I'm not suddenly rushing to spill my plans into your lap."

"You can spill anything you like into my lap, darling. But now that we've saved each other's lives and ended up in our present soggy environs because of it, it does look like we're going to have to try that horrible thing, trust, if we intend on getting to Oz, Storybrooke, Wonderland, Neverland, or any other land of note at all." His smile was still amiable, but his eyes were savage. "Unless you want to leave me chained again?"

"Look. No chains." Emma made an expansive gesture. "You're in luck."

"And most acutely I am aware of it." The pirate pushed himself to his feet with no more than a faint grunt. When she made no move to do the same, he offered her his hook with a flourish. "My lady?"

Emma gritted her teeth, looked around for any other option at all including hara-kiri (off the menu – she had lost the sword, David was going to _kill_ her) then reached up and grasped the smooth, cool curve of the metal, allowing him to pull her to her feet. After everything, her legs were a little wobbly. Which was the only reason she kept on holding on, probably somewhat more tightly than she needed. She wasn't going to let him run off and leave her here alone. And in that moment, that terror, she wondered what it had been like for him when she had, as far as he knew, left him to certain death to be dismembered by the giant.

Killian, seeming to read her thoughts – god _damn,_ he had an annoying habit of that – lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. "Don't worry. We're in this together now, love."

"Yeah." Emma should have let go of the hook after that, she really should have, but just like killing him, she'd get around to it later. "That's what I was afraid of."

He shrugged with one shoulder, as insouciantly as a Frenchman. Not that he was a Frenchman, he was a Fairytaleman. He shouldn't even be real. But he put one foot in front of another, and so did she.

They didn't die. They didn't sink. They didn't drown. Instead, step by step, water still dripping far off and the scent of salt in the silence, they moved away into the dark.

\---------

Prince Charming was awake before his wife the next morning. The early dawn was luminous and clear-washed, cool and perfect, and he stole down the creaky stairs as quietly as possible, whistling through his teeth. He stepped into his kitchen, deciding to make pancakes for his family, surprise them when they woke up. After the interruption of Mary Margaret's nightmare, they'd both slept deep and peacefully for the rest of the night, and he finally felt empowered to think, to do, _something_ about this horrible mess they'd gotten into.

David tied on an apron and started to rummage in the pantry. He had just gotten the stovetop warmed up when he noticed something strange about the wardrobe in the hall, where he'd stashed his sword. It was halfway open.

He frowned. His eyes flicked to the side table.

His car keys were missing.

A stab of alarm went through him, hard and sharp enough to make him almost drop the bowl of half-finished pancake batter. He tore off the apron and strode across the hallway, slammed open the wardrobe, and –

The sight inside made him want to be sick. Precisely because there was nothing.

His sword was gone.

And at that moment, there was a knock on his front door.

 _Just someone,_ David Nolan told himself. _No big deal._ But he already knew that was a lie. Even as he was plunging across the foyer, even while he was roaring in his head, even while he was wondering how, _how,_ they'd seen her there, they'd seen Emma asleep in bed, she was safe, she was supposed to be _safe –_

He wrenched the door open, and his world fell apart.

"Hello, Charming," said Cora with a genteel smile, holding out his own blade. "I thought you might be missing this."

He couldn't even breathe. The shock was freezing his lungs. "What – _you –_ how did you – you didn't – you – "

Cora smiled. "Oh no, Your Highness. I didn't have anything to do with taking it. I'm just returning it now, out of concern from one parent to another. For you see, that's why. Your daughter stole it. And your daughter left it behind when the pirate killed her."


	13. Gone Baby Gone

The truck burned around the corner on the minimum of its available wheels, and Leroy stamped hard on the brake. While he was still laying rubber to the road, David threw open the door and flung himself out, sprinting toward the green road sign that marked the Storybrooke boundary. He fetched to a halt just inches from it, staring at it with a look of utter desolation, hands held up to the air like a mime doing the "trapped in a glass box" routine. His sword was strapped around his waist; after delivering her bombshell and a further offhand comment about where he could go to retrieve his daughter's remains, Cora had dropped it carelessly on the doorstep and dematerialized. But there was nothing here. No enemy he could fight.

"Son of a _bitch!"_ David exploded, kicking a rock, whirling around, and punching the nearest tree. "It can't be! It can't!"

"I'm sorry." Leroy shook his head. "She's not here."

"No. No, she is not dead. I won't believe that. I can't." David spoke in bursts like staccato artillery fire. "It's the family promise, I have to find her. . . there has to be a way. . ." He spun back around, eyeing the invisible line on the road that finally, torturously marked the limit of where he could go to search for his daughter. Beyond it, bizarrely, trees were tilted, the pavement cracked, and power wires down, like a localized bomb had gone off. "Maybe I _should_ go through. Aren't parents supposed to give themselves up for their children?"

"Be smart, man," Leroy urged. "We gotta do something, sure. But you can't just run through it. We saw what happened to Sneezy, and what happened when Snow drank that potion back home, to try to forget you. You remember how horrible that was. And this isn't what Emma wanted for you. If she is still alive, you don't want to make her handle that."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." David brushed a distraught hand across his eyes. "Oh God, what are we going to say to Henry? To any of them?"

"I wish I knew. I'm sorry," Leroy said again. "But we have to go back, get Snow, and find someone who can go through that."

David's head jerked up. "There's someone else who's come to this town recently. I don't know who he is, but I do know he's staying at Granny's. I've seen him around. Any strangers in Storybrooke, they stick out like a sore thumb. Why didn't I think of it before?"

Leroy nodded grimly. Apparently he knew too. "Oh yeah," he said. "That guy."

The prince and the dwarf looked at each other for a moment longer. Then they raced each other back to the truck, and would have made a NASCAR driver proud on the way home.

\---------

"Charming, please." Mary Margaret was almost in tears. "There are too many things completely out of our control. I – I don't know how it happened. How could Hook have come _here,_ stolen the sword and Emma out from under our noses, and gotten her. . . wherever he took her?"

"I don't know either." David rubbed his temples. "Leroy and I had an idea that we could track down the stranger, the guy I've seen in the park a few times. I stopped by Granny's to ask, she said his name is Neal, he arrived here from New York about a week ago. But – "

"Strangers don't come to Storybrooke," Mary Margaret insisted. "We'd have to tell him who Emma was, we'd have to do all kinds of lying to get around the fact of why we can't leave ourselves, and as I said. . . if he _is_ here, it's because he's looking for something, or he wants something. We could be _exposed,_ David. There's a whole world out there that we've never been to, but if they heard about us. . ."

"What's more important? Is there anything more important than getting Emma back?"

"Of course not," his wife said warningly. "But I should mention, I haven't seen Kathryn around for quite a while."

"Wha – ?" The change of subject to his ex-wife left David baffled. "Do you want to?"

"No, I don't." Mary Margaret's voice was even sharper. In that moment, it was left to both of them to recall that even though they were now blissfully reunited and living in honest matrimony, they had both slept with other people while under the influence of the curse – David with Kathryn, and Mary Margaret's one-night stand with Dr. Whale. They considered it to not necessarily be their fault, but they hadn't really talked about it. After twenty-eight years of being apart, they didn't want to drive any more wedges between them.

"At any rate," Mary Margaret continued, "I thought she might have gone to law school in Boston, like she was planning, after she was released from the hospital. And while I don't really want her back in our lives again, I can at least admit that she was a good and decent woman, and I'd prefer to have her help us look for Emma, rather than this mysterious man, this Neal, we don't know anything about."

David raked a hand through his hair. "But you know Kathryn is Princess Abigail in our world. She can't leave Storybrooke any more than we can."

"Maybe she did," Mary Margaret said quietly. "What was her fiancé's name – Frederick? He's not here. Maybe it wasn't so bad for her to cross through the boundary and just become Kathryn, maybe she didn't want those old painful memories anymore. Especially after everything that happened to her here. But she'll still know you, even as David instead of Charming. If we could track her down in Boston. . ."

"It's an idea," David admitted. "But that's no guarantee. We still need to do something now, and that's why I think we should – "

"No. No, I don't want to do it."

"Fine! So what do you propose?"

Engrossed in their argument as the Charmings were, they almost didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs. Steps that didn't sound like Henry's. Then they did, however, and spun around – and stared.

David was the first to recover, though by no means quickly. "What are _you_ doing _here?"_ This morning was getting stranger and unhappier every minute.

"I'm sorry." Belle flushed. "I. . . couldn't help overhearing. I know your daughter is missing, and I needed to tell you. . . she did leave here on her own free will. Nobody kidnapped her. She took the sword and snuck out, but she ran into me on the front porch."

"But she," David said weakly. "She promised."

Mary Margaret had other concerns. "Why were you on our front porch?"

The young librarian's blush deepened. "I. . . left Mr. Gold," she said, awkwardly but firmly, though her chin was trembling and tears were welling in her eyes. "I wasn't going to let him get away with what he was planning, and I decided that as bad and terrible as she is, Cora was right in saying that I couldn't keep sacrificing myself by trying to change him. When he becomes the Dark One, it _is_ what he is. And I. . . ran."

David and Mary Margaret exchanged a look. As shocked as they were by Belle's presence in their home – though they both already understood that it must have been her they had seen asleep in Emma's bed, rather than Emma herself – they were aware that this presented a sudden new opportunity. Rumplestiltskin, alias Gold, was a complex, untrustworthy, dangerous, subtle man in this or any world, but the one thing he truly loved was Belle. And if she had separated from him, and taken up with them instead. . .

David broke the silence. "Leroy," he said, glancing at the dwarf, who had been sitting on the couch and worriedly observing the marital spat. "Grab your keys."

\---------

Fifteen minutes later, David and Mary Margaret were standing at the counter of Gold's pawnshop and jangling the little silver bell until the clapper appeared likely to detach. They had left Belle behind at the house to keep an eye on Henry, who was still asleep – it was not yet 8 AM – and also because they wanted to pungently impress on Gold the fact of her absence. The door to the shop had been locked, in fact, but that wasn't a problem to Leroy, who jiggered it in impressively quick time. They had bigger things to worry about than being cited for breaking and entering, not least because the sheriff's vanishing was the cause of their problems and the deputy sheriff was one of the breakers and enterers. Leroy himself was stationed just outside with his pickax, to be called upon immediately in the event of things going sideways.

Repeated abuse of the bell having produced no effect, David raised his voice. "GOLD! We know you're in here! You better come out _now!"_

For another agonizing few moments, there was nothing except the quiver of the crystal droplets on an antique chandelier. Then at last, the curtain rustled, and Gold emerged. He was still dressed in his customary dark pinstriped suit, black collared shirt, and purple tie, but it was crumpled and dirty as if he had never taken it off, and his face told a similar tale. He couldn't have looked less delighted to welcome a pair of brimstone-belching, pitchfork-wielding demons.

"Your Highnesses," he said precisely. "To what do I owe this. . . pleasure?"

"We need to know what you did last night." Mary Margaret set her jaw.

Gold smiled faintly. "And you know anything about where I was last night, or why?"

"No, we don't. But we _do_ know that our daughter and a certain pirate captain disappeared at the Storybrooke boundary, so we know you were there."

"Clever." Gold came to a halt behind the glass case. " _You know_ this how?"

"Cora." David bit off the word. "She appeared _at our house_ this morning with my sword and she had something _very interesting_ to tell us."

Gold cocked one eyebrow expectantly. "And?"

Deciding it was better not to get into the gory details, Mary Margaret cut in. "We need your help." She choked on the words, but there was no other choice. "For obvious reasons, none of us can go over the boundary, and it's. . . it's very possible that Captain Hook took Emma across. We have no way to follow them."

"Ah." Gold's eyebrow lifted further, along with his lip, which curled back in a snarl. "So you have now realized just what it feels like to be trapped in this place, unable to go out in search of a dearly loved and missed child. Congratulations, Your Highnesses. I hope you have a chance to feel it much further. Good day." He started to walk away.

" _Wait!"_ Mary Margaret reached out after him. "Are you really going to do this? Are you going to give up any chance of getting Belle back?"

Gold hesitated, then stopped. The expression on his face when he turned back was even more unholy. "And," he enquired, "you know she's missing how?"

"She's with us." David kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. "She's safe, but she's not too interested in coming back here. And no, we're not saying anything else."

"I see. For a perfect royal pair who prides themselves on fairness and nobility, you're playing quite dirty now. But your precious daughter broke her bargain with me for the sake of Captain Hook, who is only the man I hate most in any existence ever dreamed of, and if you think that makes me feel warm-hearted and paternal and altruistic. . . I'm sorry. It doesn't."

"So you're just going to _let_ Emma stay missing?" David exploded.

Gold smirked. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because as long as we can't cross the boundary, the curse is somehow still in effect, and that includes you. You can't leave either, and you want to. You need her."

"Do I? I had a spell all prepared to cross, and she ruined that as well, once more for the benefit of Captain Hook. She has an unnatural fixation on that pirate, by the way, and it's more than reciprocated. He's been stalking her every chance he can. For what it's worth, I too sincerely doubt that he killed her. He prefers to get his money's worth out of his whores."

Mary Margaret went white to the lips. "Don't you _ever_ call my daughter that again."

"Your daughter? Your own special snowflake? I can't for the life of me think why the nuns haven't begged her to join their convent, she's apparently so perfect. Let me make this very plain. No. No, I won't help you, and that's the end of the story. If I have to suffer this way, it is more than fair that you have to do the same. _Good. Day."_

David and Mary Margaret exchanged a despairing look. Short of David drawing his sword and going after Gold, there was nothing they could think of.

Almost nothing.

"Gold."

"Is somebody talking?" The pawnbroker glanced around, feigning astonishment. "I can't see anyone here. It does occur to me as well that the store was locked, so surely no one would be as ill-mannered as to simply break in here. Ghosts, I presume." He took another step.

" _Gold!"_ Mary Margaret almost jumped across the counter. She swallowed, trying desperately to keep her composure from crumpling. "I. . . want. . . to make a deal."

"Do you, dearie? A deal? And why am I not to think that you won't rubbish this one too, just like your daughter? Runs in the family."

"No, I swear. I won't break this one. Anything you ask."

After one more pause, Gold turned around – but it wasn't him, it was Rumplestiltskin, complete with the high, eerie cackle. "Ah, so now we're finally talking! There's always a place where the pride comes down, isn't there? How – hmm – _touching._ So then, Princess. What's the bargain?"

Mary Margaret held his gaze. "I want you to help us find Emma. To get her back, safe and sound, from wherever she's gone. Whether it's over the town boundary, or somewhere else entirely, and to not work for anyone else or change sides once during the course of it."

"And what's in it for me?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Name your price."

Rumplestiltskin cackled again. "You must be desperate indeed, dearie! Two things, then. Just two. Simple things. Little things."

 _What are you doing?_ David mouthed at his wife. _There has to be another way!_

She gazed back at him sadly. _No, there isn't._ To Rumplestiltskin, she repeated, "Two things."

"Indeed. First, a hair from you and a hair from your prince, so I can extract and bottle a new potion of _Twoo Wuv._ We'll need the strongest sort of magic for this, you know."

"Done."

"Ah, dearie, but I haven't asked for the other part."

"Ask it."

Rumplestiltskin grinned. "In exchange for us finding your dearest, dearest daughter, who is going to cause me all _sorts_ of inconveniences, I would like to be certain that she will at least not be able to cause me one. And to finish something I've so long desired. When we find Emma, you will permit me to kill Captain Hook in any way I should see fit."

David let out his breath in abject relief. _I thought he was going to ask for something difficult._ "Done," he said firmly, immediately. "As long as I can help."

"Oh, dearie." Rumplestiltskin's grin broadened. "Believe me, you can."

\---------

Regina took the key out of her pocket and fumbled it into the deadbolt, muttering under her breath. After her house had been rendered unlivable by the fire, she had rented an apartment downtown, next to Archie Hopper's office, and apparently nobody had set foot in it for almost thirty years, because the lock was sticky, the stairs were creaky, and even though she'd fumigated it and cleaned it at least a half dozen times, it still smelled like mold and something dying under the floorboards. She had filed an angry complaint, but nobody seemed inclined to do anything about it. They seemed to think it was perfectly fine if, evicted from her palatial mansion, she had to live like one of the little people for a while.

 _We'll see about that._ Regina finally wrestled the door open and started up the stairs, sounding like an invading army. It didn't help that whenever she went down them at any hour of day or night, Archie's dog liked to start barking crazily, and the fact of living next door to him was much more intimate than she cared for in the first place. She didn't trust him to keep her secrets, and she was half-convinced that he was spying on her anyway. But at least if Henry still came here, she might get a glimpse of him every once in a while.

Regina pressed her lips thin and took the second flight. She had been out early, poking around the scorched foundation of her house, in search of any further magic, any trace, anything that could get her started on breaking the cloaking spell that her mother was using to mask her movements around Storybrooke. Knowing that she was here, and that Regina was powerless to predict when or where, was driving her insane, and she was prepared to go to considerable lengths to overcome it. But everywhere was turning up a dead end.

She reached the end of the hall and pulled out her key again. Shoved it into the lock, which seemed to be even stickier than usual; she grunted and cursed and sawed it back and forth. Until at last it gave, and she stumbled through into her dark grey living room (what a joke, she could barely live here, maybe she'd have to take a room at Granny's too and – )

She sensed it before she saw it. Or maybe she smelled it. Something about the coldness that scurried down her back. The sensation of close and present magic, competing alien magic, that curled gently over the door and locked it shut, that caressed her skin almost like a lover (another thing she hadn't had in a long time, too long, she had begun to feel sporadically guilty for killing Graham, but his death had been classified as natural causes, and so she couldn't talk about that to Archie. See how long doctor/patient confidentiality held if the wretched cricket had the chance to indict her for murder). And she went very still.

"Mother," she said, half in a whisper. "Come out. I know you're here."

Silence, just long enough for her to wonder if she _was_ possibly going crazy. But then, with a whisper of tulle and silk and a scent like orchids, the flower of death, Cora stepped from the shadows of the curtains. "My dear. So long away, and you can't even give me a smile?"

Regina clenched her fists, feeling magic burn against them. "I'll give you a _red_ smile."

"Let's speak as adults, please. My beautiful daughter, I have missed you so much." Cora held out her arms. "I won't hold a grudge, you know, for what you did with the mirror – my career in Wonderland was quite fruitful. I just want you to realize how much you need me, and that we should reconcile after all these years of unproductive division and hatred. And I know you don't want to kill me. You had your chance long ago."

Regina didn't answer. She remained motionless.

Cora stepped closer. "I regret what happened with your house, my darling. I didn't want us to meet for the first time like that."

"So what?" Words burst out of her at last. "You're going to tell me it was an _accident?_ My _son_ was in that house, and you could have – "

"Your son, yes." From the way Cora smiled, Regina immediately wished she hadn't mentioned it. "I haven't met him yet, you know. He must be such a sweet boy. I understand you named him after your father. If you're his mother, I _am_ his grandmamma."

"You're never going to see him. Never going to get close to him. I won't let you, I won't let you hurt him, do what you did to me."

Cora arched an eyebrow. "And when am I going to have the chance? You're not exactly getting close to him either. One night, that's all the Swan girl lets you have with him even after you saved her life? She's still acting as if she has all the rights to him, even though she's known him for six months, even though after ten years of _you_ being his mother, she thinks she can take him away from you as she pleases. Even though she gave him up."

Regina hesitated, then turned away sharply. "I don't need _you_ telling me how to be a mother. In fact, you're the last person I would listen to in that department."

"Why, darling? Is this still about Daniel?"

She flinched. "Don't you _dare_ say his name."

"Daniel." Cora smiled. "What are you going to do now? I've always wondered, by the way. Did you bring his body with you when you cast the curse?"

"That is _none_ of your business!"

"Because I've been looking," Cora continued. "Down in the family crypt – I saw you _did_ bring Papa, how sentimental of you. But I didn't see Daniel. Just a coffin that looked rather as if it had been designed to contain him. I didn't think you'd expend such beauty and care on anyone else."

"He's not here anymore." Regina stared at the wall. "It was an unfortunate circumstance. He. . . I had to. . ." Memories of seeing him in the stable, undead and bloodied, assailed her. Every dream come true, just as swiftly to turn into a nightmare. _A monster._ "Handle him."

"Ah. Good girl." Cora glided closer. "So you do understand, don't you? Why it was never personal? And as it happens, I've come here to help you get Henry back, and prove to everyone once and for all that it's _you_ who needs to raise him. Not to hurt him. I've told you so many times, family is the most important thing to me."

"I don't believe you, Mother. I'm sorry." Regina felt her teeth squeak as she ground them together. But totally against her will, there were other memories, now. Seeing Cora in the coffin when Hook brought her back from Wonderland – thinking, foolishly, that he hadn't betrayed her and that Cora wasn't going to harm her any longer. Her mother. How it was not wanting to be her that had driven her to change as a mother herself, for Henry. And yet the fact remained that she so viscerally and desperately desired that connection, that she still loved her somehow, dark and twisted and trodden-on as it was.

"Why?" Cora asked. "If it was just Daniel that caused you to hate me in the past, and you've managed that small issue. . . my darling, please. I _want_ us to love each other again, to forgive each other. To change."

 _To change._ Regina flinched again. She wanted to dismiss it out of hand, she knew Cora was lying. . . but everyone thought _she_ was lying when she said it, and that was hard, so hard. . . if she _was_ changed, shouldn't she allow for the possibility in someone else, even her mother. . .?

"Besides." Cora was behind her now. "I have something for you. Something that will, you'll agree, show you just how much Emma Swan really cares for the child she claims for her own, merely by virtue of giving birth to him and abandoning him. Just like she's done again, with a man we both know quite well. He's betrayed both of us now, too."

Regina tensed. "What?"

"Here." Cora handed her a handkerchief. "Unfold this. It is a direct and unaltered report of what happened at the Storybrooke boundary last night. You'll find it instructive."

Regina looked at her scornfully. "And I'm supposed to _trust_ you?"

Cora's immaculately lipsticked mouth turned up in an amused smile. "No, dear. I'm trusting _you._ You have to use your own magic to activate it, and I'm dropping all my defenses. So you can either kill me, or look at what the Swan girl did."

Regina hesitated again, sorely tempted. She wanted to throw the handkerchief away from her, and she wanted to clutch it close. _It's a trap. Somehow, it's a trap. I'll open it and it'll bind me up, make me a prisoner, do something, anything besides what she says._

But her own magic was starting to return in her hands and fingers. It could sense something about Emma in the cloth, something close. And him. Hook.

 _The Swan girl abandoned Henry again._ For _him?_ That man? And still obstinately called herself Henry's mother and thought she had the superior right to him?

How dare she. _How dare she._

Fast as a snake, before Cora had time to react, Regina shook the handkerchief open.

At once, nebulous images swirled up, taking on form and color. There was no sound, but she could recognize Emma, Gold – and _him,_ Killian Jones in the flesh, although somewhat the worse for wear. From their motions, it was possible to infer that they were conducting some sort of vehement argument, and Emma _did_ have Prince Charming's sword. Not to mention, she was certainly taking the pirate's part against Gold.

Something else swirled into sight, in the rear of the picture. It looked very much like a. . . like a tornado. As might be expected, it caused everything else to turn blurry and vague, but Regina could still make out the shapes moving behind it. Saw Hook break free and run, stagger as Gold shot him, and saw Emma throw open her arms to catch him, clutching him as close as a lover, even dropping the sword so she didn't hurt him further, of all the unbelievable things. Saw her press her face into the pirate captain's neck, and smile as she plunged with him into the swirling vortex. It couldn't have looked more planned if they'd tried.

The handkerchief fell from Regina's hands to the floor, burst into flames, and tidily reduced itself to a small pile of ash. She looked up at her mother wildly.

Cora sighed. "I'm sorry, dear. I know you wanted me to be lying. I'm not."

"What. . ." Regina was still stunned, but fury was rising up, hot and destructive as a tidal wave of magma. _"What did she. . ."_

"You did see the part where our dear Hook took a bullet for her?" Cora laughed, low in her throat. "He does _not_ do that for just anyone. I suppose it's been a long time for them both, so we could, theoretically, forgive them. But I don't feel like it. Do you?"

Regina's magic was at full roar now, surging through her, reminding her who she was, who she _really_ was. Not the pitiful refugee who had to squat in this miserable apartment, not the self-sacrificing, denying martyr who let Emma Swan lord it over her and pull apart her life and fling herself into the bosom of Captain Hook, who she had clearly not hated at all as much as she pretended. _She lied to us, she lied to all of us._ No wonder Emma had ordered them all off the _Jolly Roger._ It wasn't to save their memories, even if she had pleaded fairly convincingly with Regina to get her off the mast. No, it was because it would have been hard to explain why she wasn't killing Hook. And she had left Henry. _And_ if she ever did return, would once more stake her claim to him. Widen the gulf. Tear apart what little she had left any of them.

Regina was a queen. A sorceress. A mother. She could still be that. Could still use her magic. Could change. Could defeat Cora. Could get back Henry. Could become more powerful than Gold. Could make everyone see, once and for all, that Emma Swan and her sanctimonious family were total hypocrites. All of that. And now, she had to.

_We could, theoretically, forgive them. But I don't feel like it. Do you?_

"No," Regina said softly. Then again, louder, almost in a scream, as her magic crested and began to ignite in a flood tide. "No! I don't!"

And that was when, confirming every intuition she'd ever had that he was spying on her, Archie Hopper opened her door.


	14. Playing With Fire

Emma Swan couldn't remember the last time she had seen something that could verifiably, quantifiably be called light. Even glimmer was pushing it. There was just enough of a weird, slippery luminescence to make out the outlines of herself, her companion, and the wet, dark abyss around them. If she looked back, their footsteps vanished into the blackness after a yard or two. It made her wonder if they would still be there if they retraced the way they'd come, or if it was a trackless void, erased like waves washing the sand. She was exhausted, thirsty, and starving, and she really wanted to sit down for just a second. Every time she did so, however, she was booted unceremoniously in the back by the fucking, _fucking_ pirate.

"Keep moving, love." His face was pale in the witchlight, and fresh blood was visible on the black leather of his jacket. "Sit too long, you'll never get up."

Emma glared at him. At least this method was better than the one he'd used when she first attempted to take a drink from one of the springs that trickled invitingly at their feet. She'd knelt down, pulled her hair out of her face, and prepared to scoop up the cool water, already imagining how delicious it would taste in her parched mouth. When out of nowhere, Hook slapped her hand away so hard that she thought he'd broken her fingers. "Are you _out of your bloody mind?"_

He had to be angry indeed to not bother calling her some stupid pet name, but she was just as angry back. Shaking the sting out of her hand, she bounced up and had some notion of taking a retaliatory swing at him, but he caught her wrist in his hook and trapped it there with a flick of his stump. "I'm doing you a favor," he informed her. "Ever heard of the river Styx, princess? You want to snuff it, just go ahead and drink that."

"Why don't you, then?" she snapped, heart still screaming off the rails at 1) the realization that it was poison, 2) that he'd reacted so violently to stop her from drinking it, and 3) in so doing, scared her half to death (har de har har). "All your bitching and moaning and melodrama about how I should have just let you die? Fine, go for it!"

The look he gave her back made her shiver. "Is that what you want?" Displaying his usual knack for doing the most outrageously inappropriate thing in any situation, he lifted her hand and began mouthing her knuckles, his lips warm and wet against her skin. "If that's the case, you're _mixing – your – signals_. So much that I don't quite believe it. A word of it, in fact. What if I did get down and try to drink it? Would you stop me then? Would you like to find out?"

"God, no. Cut it out, just cut it out." Again as usual, whenever she tried to get away from him, she ended up closer. He _was_ warm, all of him, here in this godforsaken damp pit. Especially when she somehow got twisted all the way around so her back was against his chest, and his arms were linked hard around her. " _Look,_ can we accept whatever point you're trying to make, consider your sexual harassment quota fulfilled for the day, and get the hell out of here?"

"What if it is hell, love?" He let her go so abruptly, with a little shove, that she stumbled, wrapping her arms around herself; it was cold in all the places his body had been just a moment earlier. "We're neither of us saints, you and me. I got shot, and you. . . well. Some unchivalrous nincompoop chucked you into a tornado. Could be we're both dead."

"Then why did you stop me from drinking the water?"

He laughed, not pleasantly. "Maybe you still want to go back."

"Then you – Hook, _please._ Where are we?"

He did that one-shouldered shrug thing of his again. "In the space between," he said at last. "You were close, bang on actually, when you called it Davy Jones' Locker. Space between life and death, one world and another. Limbo, I suppose. You can go on, or you can go back. So could I, for that matter. We'll both make our choice."

She stared at him. "We could go anywhere?"

"Close enough." He started to stride away, and she was obliged to run after him. "You, it'd be best for you to go onto Oz. I'm fairly confident you can find Cora's heart there, and do the squashy-squashy thing." He made a demonstrative gesture with his hand. "Problem solved."

"Best for _me_ to go onto Oz?"

"Of course." He gave her the teeth-bared expression that, even down here, still didn't look remotely like a smile. "Asked you that, didn't I? How much you wanted to get rid of her?"

"Yes, but if I go through the boundary – "

"Have you considered it was the only thing what stopped the tornado from hitting your family?"

She had, unfortunately. "So?"

"So. They're worth nothing to me. But might be something to you." He was managing to hold this entire conversation without appearing visibly out of breath, but considering he'd gone as long as she had without food, drink, or rest, _and_ been shot in the bargain, it was just another act, that stupid thing men did to look like they didn't need any help. Like never asking for directions. Which would be useful down here, if there was anyone to ask. "How much?"

Emma narrowed her eyes at him. "I do _not_ like the way you said that."

"Oh, the princess has decreed? Time for me to tremble before the throne? Well, I seem to have neglected to put on my groveling bloomers today. Either way, it's immaterial to me."

"Why?"

"I don't know about you, but _I'm_ going back to Storybrooke, love. I'm not resting until I shove that bullet down the crocodile's throat. I'm going to kill him and finish what was bloody started with Belle, and _mark my words,_ it won't be pretty."

It wasn't as if she could stand him ordinarily, but that just made it ten times worse. "Like hell you are!" She put on a burst of speed to catch up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder, the unwounded one. The other one had been through enough. "You are _not_ hurting Belle or Gold or any of them, I don't care what – "

"No?" he breathed. "No, love, you really don't. They've just proved how much they don't want to hurt me, haven't they? You don't care. So stop pretending that you do. Stop inserting yourself where you _don't belong,_ or it's not going to be pretty for you either." The cold metal of his hook traced across the pulse point at her throat, the sharpness terrifyingly close. "Admit that you're going to run after me wherever I go. Don't fret, it's common among the women I know. But kindly stop _lying."_

They stared each other down, neither blinking. Emma's entire body was hammering, not just her heart; it felt horribly near her skin, in her mouth, as if a touch would reach out and snatch it, crush it to powder, bring her to her knees for good. What made it still worse again was that Captain Drama Queen was correct. If he _did_ go back to Storybrooke (however the hell he planned to do that) of course she would have to follow him. She didn't trust him there for a second. Not with her family, not with Gold or Belle, not with himself – he'd gotten _shot_ for Christ's sake, and by the time they (he! He!) showed their (his! His!) face again, that was going to be on the milder end of the spectrum of the things which Gold would do to him.

But what if this _was_ their only chance to find Cora's heart and defeat her? Portals weren't exactly popping up like mushrooms, after all (then again, maybe they were) and she'd have to go onto Oz by herself. And aside from the leaving Hook part, she wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Enchanted Forest without Mary Margaret. She flattered herself that she had picked up a trick or two, but the essential fact remained the same. Hook had told her to trust him, but what the hell did that mean? Trust him to get them out of here? To go on alone? To not drop a giant atom bomb into the middle of everything and everyone she knew and cared about? Into her?

Yeah. Fat fucking chance.

They stared at each other evilly a few moments more. He wasn't as good as he thought at this whole villain thing; she was even doing the death glare better than him. That was when she scoffed and turned around, and started to walk. This place couldn't go on forever. And if she couldn't rest, or take a drink, or any of it, the smartest thing was to just get it over with.

That had been – well, it was really hard to tell, but several hours ago at least, and the enervating dark fog was getting worse. It felt heavy and sticky in her chest, closing her throat, weighing her feet down as if each step was being pulled out of a tar pit. No thanks to the periodic boot of Hook's reminders not to stop, she was stiff and sore, and _she_ hadn't been the one shot. Not that she was worried if he was all right, because she wasn't, she was just. . .

(worried if he was all right).

Exasperated, Emma stopped in her tracks. "Hey," she shouted. "Hey, you. It might be just me, but this place is starting to freak me out. And maybe invincible manly pirates can keep going forever, but I'm about to drop. We _need_ to find a way to get out of here."

She braced herself for his inevitable smart-ass retort, but he didn't even seem to have heard. He was staring vacantly into the mist, motionless, and she hesitated, then finally stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around with a wild look on his face, and his hook flashed up so fast that she jerked her head back and snatched it by reflex, a pretty impressive maneuver if she did say so herself, even if it had been executed totally out of self-preservation – she wasn't used to dealing with people who had a lethal weapon attached to their left arm, who were in fact lethal weapons themselves. Their gazes both flicked to it, but he didn't say anything. He just cocked a dark eyebrow interrogatively, waiting.

Emma swallowed. "Yeah, so. You're the expert here. And just so you know, I'm trying that trust thing. Take advantage of it, it's probably not going to happen again."

"By which remarkable utterance you mean what exactly, darling?"

"You told me to trust you. We got interrupted earlier. So fine. I'm giving it a shot. Tell me how we get out of here." The horrible thought crossed her mind that he might not know how, but he was something like half immortal and a pirate who'd had all kinds of misadventures in his day, and he'd said you could go anywhere from here. Not to mention, Davy Jones was his cousin. It beggared belief that he'd never ended up in the Locker before.

Hook grinned. "Well, then. The thing about these traps, these in-between places, is that they turn you into a ghost, until you wander in circles forever and have forgotten any desire or memory about how to get out. You can prove you're not, that you're still alive, in one of two ways."

"And those are?"

"Blood is the oldest of curse-breaking materials, lass. Give me that lovely wrist, and. . ." He eyed it with a professional's éclat. "I'd be careful, of course."

Emma flinched. "Yeah, uh, I'm not too eager to let you slice me up." She glanced up at him. He was still grinning. _Fuck._ "Do I dare ask what my second option is?"

"I was hoping you would," he said, with nauseating self-satisfaction. "You can let me cut your arm, or you can come here and give me a kiss."

"Oh for the love of. . . Be serious."

"I'm being extremely serious. Blood or true love, that's what it boils down to. Those will always shatter a curse. In this world or between them or outside them."

"But I'm. . . look, I'm not your true love, all right?"

"No," he said mildly. "You're not. My true love died a long time ago. But it might be possible we can trick it."

"So what?" The hurt from earlier bubbled up. "You're going to close your eyes and pretend I'm Milah?"

"So what's it to you if I do? You've been trying everything but stripping off your clothes in front of me – no, wait – to prove just how _uninterested_ you are, princess. It's nothing to me what you do or don't think, but I wasn't lying when I said we were in this together. I _will_ get you back home safe. Unless you're going to Oz?"

Emma hesitated.

"Go on." He waved at her. "Shoo."

"I'm not going by myself."

He raised an eyebrow. "So I can't go back to Storybrooke without you, and you can't go onto Oz without me. That about sorts it?"

"Looks that way," she mumbled.

"Fine, then. We're doing it my way, hence going to Storybrooke. And once we're there, I will be perfectly happy to leave you alone and never speak to you again, if that's what you so deeply want. Contingent on _you_ leaving _me_ alone to finish what I came to do."

"Like hell," she said. "Not happening, Neal."

Hook looked like she'd hit him in the face. _"What_ did you just call me?"

"Oh, what did I?" She looked up innocently. "Must have slipped out. I don't know, I thought I was talking to someone else. Of course it doesn't mean anything to you?"

He looked so frightening just then that she wanted to put more distance between them. Back on his ship, Cora had insinuated that Hook had been the one who sent Neal after her, and when she'd asked, he'd given one of his usual weasel answers that it wasn't true and wasn't a lie. She was taking bitter pleasure, however, in the fact that he looked so that it was really smart to bait him. Not here, not now. If she'd been capable of acting rationally around him, reserved, like she wanted to be. . . but she wanted him to feel that same hurt, and didn't even –

"Give me your wrist," Hook ordered. "Now."

Emma pulled it back. "Yeah. . . still passing on that."

"Then do you expect to just – "

Emma took two sharp strides across the space between, and kissed him.

It had, she was satisfied to note, the effect of catching him utterly off guard. She felt exceedingly tempted to bite off his lips, but instead her hands came up on either side of his face and slid around to the back of his neck, up into his dark hair, holding him, cradling him. _We have to trick it,_ she reminded herself. Although how you faked true love was entirely beyond her; wasn't that the point of Gold's little potion heist that had almost cost Henry's life? But that didn't matter, not at the moment. Her eyes were closed (she just didn't want to see if it wasn't working, that was all) and she opened her lips, felt his arms rise up around her waist and the point of his hook at the small of her back, his hand running up her spine, tangling in her dirty curls, at the nape of her neck, turning her mouth, both of them making faint noises, soft wet sounds. If anything else felt like what his mouth felt like, it was beyond a doubt ten different kinds of illegal. It seemed like the sort of thing a sheriff should be aware of.

She felt him pull just a fraction away, his nose brushing her cheek, his forehead still touching hers. If he'd said _Milah_ at that moment, it would have broken her in half.

He didn't. She could hear the rough sound of his breathing, uneven, ragged. His lips ghosted over hers again, but he didn't bend in for another kiss. Instead he said, "Open your eyes, lass."

Almost afraid to obey, Emma nonetheless did so.

It was still dark, and for a moment she felt a sinking certainty that nothing had changed, that they were still trapped. But it was a different sort of dark, and as she blinked, she saw the moon stitching through the trees and realized that they were in the dark woods of Storybrooke, right where they'd been before the tornado hit. But not entirely so. There was still a filmy black veil around them.

"What the – "

"Shh." He stepped back and let go. "We're still in the space between. Just. . . closer than we were. Should be able to get out, though, if we try. It's not as easy as it looks."

"So tell me what we need to – " She didn't know if she was up for a repeat performance. Her knees had turned to water and her heart to flame. Her lips felt swollen, her throat closed, her breath short and painful. Another kiss was going to be really, really bad.

He cracked a twisted grin. "Far be it from me to leave a lady unsatisfied," he said, with such dark, seductive noir that it felt like an actual punch in the gut. He was reaching for her hand, as if they were about to step out together – then froze.

"What?" Emma said urgently. _"What?"_

"Stay here, love," he said. "Somebody's coming."

And with that he backed up, took a running start, and threw himself headlong through the black veil, into the forest. In a few moments he was out of sight.

\---------

Belle and Henry were waiting when David and Mary Margaret returned home. Gold had informed them that he required the afternoon to effect preparations, and that they should meet him that night, 10 PM, at the town boundary, at which point their partnership would commence. The deal was made, there was no going back, but the Charmings nonetheless continued to disagree as Leroy drove them home; David's truck had vanished along with their daughter. They were, for obvious reasons, disinclined to split up again, but the fact remained that with Cora _here,_ something had to be done. But who? How? Where?

Belle had been forced to explain the whole sorry situation to Henry in their absence, and she was even less pleased to hear where they had been. "You made a _deal?_ For what?"

"To find Emma," Mary Margaret sighed. "I'm sorry, but – "

"What did he ask?" Belle interrupted. "In exchange?"

David and Mary Margaret exchanged one of those old-married-couple glances that they were relieved to find they could still do, in which the transmission of unpleasant information was faced up to and silently delegated. "He asked to be allowed to kill Hook without interference," David said at last, "and frankly, I think we got off pretty light."

"No!" They'd expected Belle to have no objection to this, but the young librarian looked even more distressed. "I. . . no, he can't! Rumple told me what happened, that Hook stole his wife and that she died, I know he's a bad man, but if Rumple kills him in cold blood, it's going to be the end of it, the end of him. The Dark One will take over again."

"I'm sorry?" Mary Margaret blinked. "Belle, you were the one who just _left_ him on grounds of that possibly happening."

"Yes," Belle said steadily, "and I did it because I thought Cora was right. Now I see, however, that that was exactly what she wanted me to do. For better or worse, I'm the only person in this town that Rumple truly, deeply cares about, and I'm the only person who can keep him from going. . . bad. Which he will, as long as Hook is here. I need to go back to him, I need to fight for him. Cora wants him to turn into the Dark One again, and as soon as good people stop fighting evil, evil wins. It's not weakness to do that, it's not being trampled on. It's making a choice to live like a human, and not. . ." She paused. "A beast."

"In that case," David pressed, "you _should_ let him kill the bastard. Hook's a danger to every single one of us, Belle. We can't let some tender concern for Gold's conscience – something which I'm not really sure exists in the first place – stop us from doing what – "

" _Listen_ to me!" Belle stamped her foot. "I know you're worried about Emma. I know everything that's said about her, that she's the savior, and that she's your daughter. But there are other people in this town, and they're important. Their lives _matter._ Including Rumple, including the people who would be hurt if he became a monster again. Including me. Getting Emma back doesn't mean you can just trample on the rest of us."

"Belle, I don't think you – "

"And besides, look at your family. Look how often you two have lost each other, and found each other again. So many of those – even if it was for his own reasons – were thanks to Rumple." Belle's eyes were welling with tears, and she backhanded them away. "Please."

David and Mary Margaret looked at each other and sighed heavily. "We'll keep it in mind," David said at last, "but you also said that Hook stole Gold's wife back home, and that she's dead. What do you think happened to her? Hook killed her. That must be why they hate each other so much. And you've already admitted that he tried to do the same to you. He's like Ted Bundy in eyeliner. Can you please understand why I don't feel any hesitation going after the real beast that has my daughter, and why I think it's just fine if we let Gold wipe the floor with him?"

Belle set her mouth and shook her head. The ensuing silence was hideous, broken at last only by Henry speaking up.

"Don't worry," he said confidently. "My mom's going to be okay. If Captain Hook tries anything bad, she'll kick his butt."

"I hope so." David tousled his grandson's hair. "I really, really hope."

 ---------

After spending the rest of the afternoon in a tense, protracted standoff, a further course of action was finally hammered out around nightfall. Nobody had seen or heard from Regina all day, putting the kibosh on their intention to billet Henry with her, and their backup plan, Archie, hadn't picked up his phone either, which was strange. Henry himself, of course, wanted to come along, and after he (awfully shrewdly for a kid) suggested that he _could_ stay at his classmate Grace's house instead, complete with her unstable psycho father, they finally and grudgingly agreed. As long as he stayed in the car, and under no circumstances exited it. If it turned out that they were leaving Storybrooke, they'd make sure to say goodbye to him, and he'd go home with Leroy. He would assuredly learn a few things he shouldn't while in the dwarves' company, but it was the best option they had.

Henry agreed cheerily, and with that, their willingness to take him into potential danger now established, they couldn't exactly turn down Belle when she insisted on doing the same. There was really no one for David to blame but himself, and he finally gave in, but stipulated that she likewise was bound by the same conditions.

Belle agreed, but with an expression that plainly said if she thought it necessary to interfere at any point, she would be doing so. It was with an already sinking heart, therefore, that David ushered the women and Henry into Leroy's waiting truck at 9:33 PM.

"Want me to wait around, chief?" Leroy asked, as they sped toward the edge of town. "In case something goes fishy?"

"I can't see how that would hurt." David rubbed his temples, then touched his sword yet again, just to remind himself that it was there. He shot a glance at his wife; Mary Margaret had brought similar instruments. If they _were_ going across the boundary into the real world, for the first time in their lives, they didn't intend to go unarmed. How they would explain the swords, David wasn't quite sure, but he'd think of something. Say they were medieval recreationists, or eccentric collectors, or method actors. Something.

Gold wasn't there when they pulled up. Leroy cut the engine, and they waited in taut, anticipative silence for five or ten minutes, until headlights strafed the bend and the old black Cadillac appeared out of the night. Belle's face was drawn, her lips white, as she watched her erstwhile lover open the door, climb out, and beckon at the truck.

Leaving Leroy, Henry, and Belle inside, David and Mary Margaret got out. The wind was cold, and they both pulled their jackets up as they faced Gold. He eyed their swords and their rucksacks, and smiled. "Ah, so you've packed for a journey. Smart of you. Well then. Time to see if this works. I apologize for the delay, but I had to collect a new test subject after my first one. . . got away. If you'd give me a hand?"

"A hand?"

"If you don't mind." Gold escorted them around to the trunk of the Cadillac, from which both David and Mary Margaret thought they heard a faint yelping. They frowned, but before the question had time to get to their lips, Gold unlatched the boot to reveal its passenger: a roly-poly, bearded cherub in coveralls and a red knitted hat, tied up and gagged.

"What the – " David frowned. "Gold, who is this?"

"A certain irritation for the both of us." Gold smiled. "He was the one who kidnapped Belle, and he also kidnapped your daughter after happening upon her in a compromised situation outside Granny's diner. Was happy to confess to all sorts of things, in fact, once I began. . . asking. So it's only just, you'll agree, that he's the one we'll be trying it on first."

The Charmings exchanged a troubled glance, but didn't protest, and David assisted Gold in hauling the prisoner out of the trunk and hauling him to the spray-painted red line on the pavement. It was there that Gold cut the gag, ripped off the man's unassuming chapeau, and dangled it before his crossed eyeballs. "How long have you had this?"

"F-forever. My grandmother made it for me. It's always given me good fortune. Please, please don't – "

Gold removed a vial of some clear potion from his breast pocket and sprinkled it on the hat. "You'd better hope it does. For it might just be the difference between life and death."

"No – I'm not going over that line, I'll lose my memories – "

"You were willing to do the same to Belle!" Gold roared, and David wondered what Belle herself was making of this from the truck. "Let me give you a small incentive. . . ah. Here."

With that, he reached into his breast pocket again and came up with a gun. A handsome weapon, surely, and also familiar in a way that made David frown. "Hey, that looks an awful lot like the gun at the sheriff's office. At least that was at the sheriff's office. And now – "

"It's being put to good use, I assure you. It served me quite well last night, while I was pirate hunting." Gold cocked it and aimed it casually at the cringing prisoner.

"Pirate hunt – wait, wait, wait a second. Quit pointing that thing at him, and tell us everything that happened last night. Do we _need_ to cross this boundary? Or is this all something for you? When you said that we finally knew what it felt like to be unable to go after a child?"

"It's a bit late to start asking questions, dearie. Already done and made, that bargain of yours."

"Just answer it. What happened to Hook and Emma last night? Why is it all torn up on the other side of this line? What _happened?"_

"It doesn't matter. We're going over this boundary, or we will as soon as William Smee here obliges us." Gold made a sharp gesture with the revolver. "Unless he has a death wish."

William Smee was evidently no sort of hero. He crammed his hat back on, took a few faltering steps backwards, then fell over the line with all the grace of an overturned turtle.

David and Mary Margaret held their breath as the crackling blue magic engulfed him, as Gold stood motionless and the night wind sighed mournfully. Smee pulled faces as if he was being tortured, but for all his dramatics, he was still intact. Physically, at least.

"What's your name?" Gold demanded.

A pause. Then, "William. . . Smee."

"And what's my name?"

"Rumplestiltskin." A relieved look spread across the man's face. "I remember!"

If that was anything close to a smile on Gold's own lips, it was hard to tell. "Very good," was all he said. "Perhaps you'll even remember after what comes next."

Smee's triumphant expression faltered. "Scuse?"

"I can't have you squealing," Gold informed him. "At least, not in a fashion anyone would understand. You're quite a rat, aren't you? So this will barely be a change."

With that, before David and Mary Margaret had figured out either if they should intervene or how to, Gold clicked his fingers. A seething cloud of dark smoke gulped up the befuddled pirate, who'd barely recovered from the first application, and he certainly didn't have a hat to save him from this one. In fact when it cleared, the hat was the only thing left. For a moment. Then a large black rat scuttled into the woods as fast as it could go.

Mary Margaret gasped. "What did you – "

"Preventive measures, dearie." Gold didn't glance at her. "Pay that one enough, he'll do anything. Squeal to anyone. Now he can squeal all he likes, it won't avail him. I always cover my tracks." He removed the unremarkable, ratty brown scarf he was wearing from around his neck, doused it briskly with the potion, and replaced it, then held out his hand. "Your ring?"

Mary Margaret hesitated, then twisted off her engagement ring with its green stone. However, she didn't hand it over immediately. "You're sure this will work?"

"I just proved it, didn't I? Now, dearie. Tick tock."

"You know," a voice drawled from the woods. "Considering that you've already stolen my woman, my hand, my life, and now my first mate, I'm not so sure I'm going to let you steal my line to boot. Not any of it, actually."

A tall shadow stepped out directly in front of them, dark and raffish and roguish and clad head to toe in leather. Blood was still drying on his jacket, and his pale face was alight with mad vengeance. He raised his hand, and cocked his gun.

Mary Margaret shouted.

David went for his sword.

"Hello, crocodile," said Captain Hook, his smile stretching into a ghastly rictus. "Your Highnesses. Looking for me?"

A ball of fire bloomed in Rumplestiltskin's hand. "Not any longer. I see shooting people isn't quite as mortal as it used to be. I won't make that mistake twice."

The truck door jerked open, and Belle screamed, _"No!"_

\---------

He hadn't come back.

What had she expected, really?

To be honest, to be totally frighteningly absurdly desperately honest – not this. And as time slipped by, Emma began to become aware that she had been tricked. Flat out deceived. He'd flirted with her and seemed to warm to her and led her to where she needed to go for mutual complicated reasons belonging to them both, and then in the moment when she'd been almost ready to go over to his side and trust him with her life, left her cruelly in the lurch. Because she was; the black veil around her remained. She was almost through it, almost back to Storybrooke, but not quite. She was still in the space between worlds.

And he had abandoned her there.

The more she thought it over, the more Emma realized how horribly it mirrored what she had done to him on the beanstalk, and with that, there went any shred of doubt that this was an accident. There hadn't been anyone coming. _Stay here._ He'd tricked her to get her out of his way, but _had_ been honest with her, incriminatingly so, when he told her what he was going to do: go back and finish what had been interrupted. But why, _why,_ did it feel like her heart was breaking?

(Or had he not meant to? Was she overthinking this? Had he actually meant to come back for her, keep the promise he'd made both in the cell and then on the _Jolly Roger_ when he rescued her from Cora – but been unable? Fallen back? Or broken down?)

She had to find out. She started into a run, gasping. The mist swirled hungrily, trying to pull her in – turn around, and she'd be back in that wet black netherwhere. Why was it that she wasn't as furious at Hook as she should be? He'd used her, and she'd let him do it. All that malarkey about kisses and true love. . . if all that time he'd known how to escape, but had preferred to manipulate her instead. . . oh God, what had he. . . where was he. . . oh God, oh God –

There was something ahead of her. The road, and the green sign marking both the boundary of Storybrooke and where she'd been snatched away by (or let's be honest, unfairly ambushed into) the tornado. Had that been last night? Impossible to tell. But there were cars there, two cars, Leroy's truck and an unfamiliar black Cadillac, and there were peop –

Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus Christ. No.

"Where is she?" Mary Margaret was screaming. _"What have you done with my daughter, you son of a bitch?"_

"I'm here!" Emma yelled, waving her arms frantically. "I'm here! I'm standing right here! Help!"

Mary Margaret didn't turn, or any of them. _They can't hear me._ She wasn't in Storybrooke, after all. She couldn't get back, she couldn't get back. The black tendrils were pulling her harder now, swallowing her down into the Locker, and if she went in there again by herself, she was done for. She couldn't keep moving forward, either. All she could do was watch, paralyzed.

Emma saw, just then, someone running. To where Gold and Hook stood nearly nose to nose at the boundary line, Gold's hand filled with fire and Hook's hand pointing a gun. Whoever was about to get into the middle of that was the bravest person alive, or else the –

"No!" Belle wept. "Rumple, _don't!"_

Hook pivoted halfway, without even changing expression. And then, just as she had almost reached them, just as Gold was turning in shock at the sound of her voice, he shot her.

Belle staggered. But she had been running at full tilt, and her momentum carried her forward over the boundary, blue magic crackling around her as she slumped. Gold was already diving after her, cradling her frantically. "Belle? _Belle?"_

"Who's Belle?" she murmured, as David and Mary Margaret communally threw themselves at Hook. "Who are you. . .?"

" _No!"_ Gold cried. "What you've done – it can't be undone!"

"Now you finally know how it feels!" Hook looked totally insane now, as the Charmings grabbed him by the arms and jerked them behind him, knocking the gun out with a clatter. "I was shot, she was shot! I've forgotten, now she has! You could have done what you did to me, but you did it to Milah! Kill me! Go on! Kill me! Then I'll finally be reunited with her!"

Emma was transfixed with horror. She couldn't have moved even if she wasn't about to be sucked back down to the Locker, and thence to Oz or more likely, death. She wanted to scream, but it was frozen in her throat.

And then, the night was torn apart by headlights. Coming from _down_ the road.

But no one ever came to Storybrooke –

She could see the five of them – David, Mary Margaret, Gold with Belle in his arms, and Hook – dodging madly to every side.

Four of them got out of the way.

One of them didn't.


	15. This Present Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, everyone. As mentioned in my other fic, I'm back in grad school, so updates will continue to be sporadic. As to those of you who have expressed concern about my sister, thanks again. She's supposed to come home tomorrow, but then, she was supposed to get out a week ago, and then that didn't happen. She's better in terms of the infection being gone, but has a looooong recovery ahead and basically no immune system, so further complications are entirely likely. . . your good thoughts are much appreciated. But to atone for my general lack of updating prowess, this chapter is nice and long. Enjoy!

In those first shattered instants after the crash, before the car had even come to a halt, while it was spinning out on the side of the road and brakes were burning and glass was crunching and Belle's terrified screaming rang out over both, as David was already on his cell phone bellowing for an ambulance and Mary Margaret apparently couldn't decide whether to throttle Gold or take over for him so he could get on with what he had been interrupted so decisively from –

– That, then, was when Emma Swan realized just _how_ bad her problem was.

Because she didn't see any of that. Well, she did, even through the Locker's veil of evil black murky stuff, but it flashed through her head in an instant and was gone again, without leaving even the faintest ghost of meaning behind. All she could stare at was the dark figure who had been violently thrown into the muddy ditch, head over heels over the car roof by the force of the impact, and who hadn't moved since. Could see Belle sobbing and shoving at Gold as he hovered frantically over her, and then, as Mary Margaret got hold of the distraught girl and tried in vain to comfort her, saw the pawnbroker spin around and stride across the dark road, hand flaring with fire, directly toward where Hook's broken body lay.

Emma's heart stopped. She swore she could actually feel it. She had a distant, half-crazed memory of him telling her that there were two things that could get them out of their current predicament: blood and true love. The latter was out of the question (she couldn't believe it had been a question in the first place) and when she tried to hurl herself against the enveloping black cobwebs as Hook had done, it threw her back so hard that her teeth jangled in her head. But even as she hit the ground, she was twisting around, fumbling for a rock and gashing it so savagely against her arm that she bit her lip on a cry. _The savior's blood. . ._ she didn't want to use magic against this stuff, not until she knew what it was, not until she knew what _she_ was, she didn't even know how she had gotten it to work in time to save Hook after he was shot, but this. . . he'd tried to convince her to let him die. . . had he _thrown himself_ in front of the car as it looked –

Her battered forearm finally produced a slow leak of blood, and Emma flung the drops into the dark smoke still trying vigorously to suck her back down to the underworld. It hissed and parted, and – boots slipping in the wet leaves, bare head pelted with the rain that had started to fall as portentously as a funeral shroud – she ran harder than she ever had in her life.

" _Gold!"_ She got there just in time. He had both hands – one more than he'd left the man he was currently intent on murdering – around Hook's throat. "Are you _insane?!"_

"Yes!" he roared. "And you'd best let me finish! Otherwise your darling parents are going to pay the price!"

Emma jerked. She stared wildly over Gold's shoulder at David and Mary Margaret, both of whom were staring just as wildly back at her – to their eyes, she had, after all, materialized from the middle of nowhere. In the commotion of falling into Davy Jones' Locker via tornado via crazy evil witch, in close embrace with a badly wounded, unfairly gorgeous, and overly dramatic suicidal pirate, she had almost forgotten how her parents, already gun-shy due to her previous disappearance, would react. _Oh God, no, no, don't tell me they made a deal!_ With her own broken bargain foremost in Emma's mind as she tried to wrestle Gold away from his renewed assault on Hook, the last thing she needed was another weapon for him to hold against her.

Hook himself was clawing to his knees, snarling something about Milah – reeling like a drunkard, blood down half his face, trying like a wild animal to get at his enemy. Emma's horrendous relief – fine, call it what it was – at seeing him still kicking was immediately subsumed as Gold swung around for a new attack. Hook crashed back to the ground with a scream of agony, and she couldn't get between the two of them fast enough. The strange car was still smoking and crumpled on the side of the road, that car and everything it could possibly –

Then her father was there, dragging Gold away. "No! What would Belle think? Murder is a bad first impression!"

"She doesn't even know me!" Gold struggled to get loose, but David had him in an iron grip. Emma looked frantically down the dark road for flashing lights – she could already hear the sirens. She was the sheriff, she really needed to start handling this, but instead, she found herself falling to her knees at Hook's side.

"Hey, beautiful." Of all the ludicrous things, the stupid man was grinning at her. A moment ago he'd been crazed with his death wish, not to mention getting his clock cleaned (ha ha, he was Captain Hook and he'd gotten his clock cleaned) by the car, but he was _grinning_ at her. What even the actual _fuck._ "And here I didn't think you'd – _ah –_ "

She wanted to tell him that he'd left her behind and she wasn't going to trust him, that he'd blown it. That she was done with him. Instead she almost couldn't breathe, desperate to reach the magic that had saved him last time. Her hand groped at his torso, and his good hand rose up and pressed it to his stomach. She could feel the wrongness immediately. "Your ribs are broken."

"Ah," he wheezed. "Must be why it hurts when I laugh."

 _Why are you even laughing?_ She bit her lip, tears stinging her eyes. "Buddy, you are cutting it _awful_ fine here. What, getting shot wasn't enough?"

Hook started into some answer, probably one far more sassy than someone lying crumpled in a ditch with shattered ribs had any right to make, but at that moment, the flashing lights finally rounded the corner and the ambulance hove into view. Mary Margaret was shouting something about the man in the car, and it took every drop of Emma's willpower to jump up as Hook's hand was still clutching at hers, to walk away from him and go to meet the paramedics. To instruct them to see to the stranger first, who was clearly in bad shape, and then wave them over to Hook.

As the paramedics knelt and unfolded their gurney, one of them unreeling an IV and approaching his arm with it – Hook being even more of a drama queen than usual about the needle, funny for a guy who'd spent the last forty-eight hours in some kind of horribly life-threatening trauma – Emma felt a hand close on her shoulder. As welcoming as a viper, Gold breathed in her ear, "It's so good to see you home safe already, dearie."

"Emma!" Mary Margaret screamed, shoving past the cordon of medical personnel to reach her daughter. "What are you – oh my God, you're _here_ – "

"Yes, she is," Gold remarked. "And your dear husband just pulled me off of Hook. As if the entire _lot_ of you have forgotten a deal, _again."_

"The deal doesn't have anything to do with this, Gold." David was breathing heavily as he moved to get between the Dark One and his wife and daughter. "It's null. We would stand aside to let you kill Hook _if_ you got Emma back for us. But she came back on her own."

"Technicalities. Always the last recourse, isn't it?" Gold hadn't blinked, still transfixing them with that pale, intent snake stare. "In my shop, Your Highness, you were _so_ eager to assist in the good captain's demise. Where did that go wrong? Was it seeing that I wasn't lying when I mentioned your daughter's fixation on him? What do I have to do to get you to keep your promises? Remind you that your boy is in that truck, right there?" He pointed.

Emma blanched. " _Henry's_ here?!" She stared at them in betrayed horror. "What did you _do?"_

"Emma, I'm so sorry, please." Mary Margaret clutched at her hand. "You – we were – we were desperate, we didn't know what to – "

"You made a _deal_ with him?" Emma's voice cracked. "You promised to let him _kill Hook_ if he got me back safely?" For the first time since she'd learned that her parents were her parents, she almost couldn't speak for the anger and agony crushing her gut. Ordinary kids went through this in their teenage years, when they realized that their parents were no longer the adored figures they'd been in childhood. Even those lucky kids whose parents _weren't_ Snow White and Prince Charming, the fairytale embodiment of true love and perfection and moral rectitude. Mary Margaret Blanchard and David Nolan weren't those people, not exactly, not here, but –

"You. . ." The tears that had been threatening earlier were now about to spill down Emma's cheeks in full force, and that was just utterly mortifying. "You brought my son into danger, you made a _deal_ with Gold, even after everything that just happened. . . you told me I was a good person and made the right choices since I didn't order the giant to kill Hook, and now you've just decided that doesn't _matter_ as much? How _could_ you?"

"Sweetheart," Mary Margaret begged. "I am so, so sorry. We couldn't stand the thought of losing you again, we would have done _anything._ Please, tell us how to make it okay."

"You can't." It sounded harsh, too harsh, and even as it was coming out of her mouth, Emma wanted to take it back, but it was too late. "You can't make this okay. Not right now. Please, just get out of my way and let me do my job."

Mary Margaret looked as if someone had swung a ton of bricks into her face. David was almost as stunned. They reached out for each other, as the paramedics loaded Hook and the stranger into the ambulance, as Belle kept on sobbing and trying to shove them away as they tried to take her too, and Gold stood there like an avenging angel – or demon. The rainy night was split apart by sirens, lights, shouts, smoke, shattered glass, and the scorched afterglare of magic.

Emma turned her back and walked away.

\----------

It was twenty minutes later when she arrived at Storybrooke General Hospital, having flat-out sprinted most of the way and given a ride by Ruby, who had apparently received notice of the catastrophe unfolding at the boundary line, the rest. When they pulled up with a screech, Emma jumped out, managed to thank Ruby for the lift, and thought about apologizing for her bad behavior several nights ago, but now was not the time. Instead, she ran inside.

She wasn't alone. David and Mary Margaret were there as well, with Leroy, Henry, a hysterical Belle, a flood of official-looking people – and the two stretchers, Hook's and the stranger's, being wheeled through the whole mess. Neither of them looked very compos mentis at all, and Hook's eyes were closed, blood drying on his face.

In that moment, as she looked at him, Emma felt like she had been torn in half like a piece of cheap cloth. She jerked a hand out to snag the sleeve of a passing nurse, pointing her desperately at the pirate as he rolled by. "Hide him!" she screamed. "Find a private room and _hide him!"_

The nurse looked at her in confusion and consternation, but didn't get a chance to answer. Someone was paging Dr. Whale, who did not appear to be in evidence, and Ruby ducked in at that moment and would have been fully justified in turning tail (so to speak) and exiting again immediately. Instead, she plunged into the mess. "Whoa! What – what's going on? Belle! Are you all right? What – "

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?" Belle gasped, eyes wild. "Who are you? What's going _on_ – please, will everyone – _please – "_

Ruby flinched, stared at Mary Margaret, and started to ask, likely in vain, what was going on. Emma turned from her parents again, more tears starting in her eyes, and was just under the delusion that she should do something else, when the doors swung open and Gold stormed in.

 _This. Is so utterly. Not what I need._ Emma missed almost all of the ensuing conversation, until Whale finally appeared and said something about the stranger being badly hurt, bleeding into his chest cavity, and asking Gold something, something about using his magic to heal him, and Gold answering how he was glad he didn't give a damn. And then, even through her panic, she understood the full gravity of what had now happened.

Someone had come to Storybrooke. Someone from the outside world. According to the phone Dr. Whale proffered, his name was Greg Mendel, he liked to tweet pictures of his filet mignon, and he was a small-time executive who spent his weekends, probably from his boring life in a Connecticut bedroom suburb, knocking through quaint New England fishing villages. Someone who, if he found out about this place, was going to have a lot more to tweet about.

"Save him," Emma ordered Whale. "You have to save him."

The doctor shot another queasy look at Gold, who was staring fixedly down the hall where Belle had been led off. He didn't answer. Finally he said, "It would be easier just to let him die."

" _No._ That is not even an option. People will want to know where he is. And there is no way we're just letting him die because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But our lives," Leroy said behind her, clearly shocked. "If we're discovered – "

"Yeah? What about _his_ life? How about how I'm the sheriff, and it is not a committee?"

"He's going to need surgery," Whale said, avoiding her eye. "Complicated stuff."

"Surgery," David prompted. "So aren't you supposed to be scrubbing in?"

"Yeah, I'm going to. . . do that." Whale turned and stumbled away.

"Does anyone else notice he's drunk off his ass?" Mary Margaret asked. She shot an imploring glance at Emma. "What if someone comes looking for this Greg before he can – "

She never finished that sentence. Instead, at that very moment, the phone still in Emma's hand began to warble a triumphant, tinny version of the _Star Wars_ theme.

"Too late," she said grimly. "Someone _is_ looking for him."

\----------

They practically had to have the Malta Conference after that. Talk strategy, then realize in horror that Whale, instead of going into the operating room, had gone missing. Send Ruby out to hunt for him, argue more about the relative merits and ethics of saving the stranger's life, and God knew what else. But Emma was still not interested in forgiving her parents right now, and her business remained unfinished. Leaving curt instructions at the nurse's station that she was to be notified immediately in her professional capacity if anything happened at all, she turned away and hurried down the corridor at an Olympic medal-worthy clip.

It didn't take long to find where they'd stashed him. She closed the door behind her and wished she could lock it, then turned around.

The difference was striking. They'd already gotten him out of his torn, bloodstained black leathers and into a white fluffy bathrobe- _thing,_ so incongruously domestic that it made Emma bite her lip on an unhinged giggle. He was hooked up (again, side-splitting) to IV bags and monitors and suchlike, and as for the notorious appendage itself, it was MIA. Of course. They weren't going to leave him with that thing attached. As for his other hand, they'd also taken the smart precaution. He was handcuffed to the bed. With broken ribs. After being shot. And thrown (albeit by his own volition) into a tornado and paying a brief visit to Hades. _Rough day?_

Emma moved quietly across the room and sat down on the bed. She listened to his shallow, stertorous breathing, wondered just how many painkillers they had jacked him up on, and had to fight a crazy urge to reach for his hand that lay battered and dirty on the white sheets, still wearing its rings. This place was no sanctuary. Belle was here, so Gold was going to be haunting it, and if he considered her and her family doubly in debt to him –

Another helpless surge of anger at her parents welled up in Emma's throat, even though she knew that it was badly misplaced. She shouldn't be angry at them for trying to protect her. She'd done some dumb stuff in her time – plenty of dumb stuff – and a lot of it to try to protect Henry. But hearing _this_ , after her mother had told her that her goodness had been what stopped her from killing Hook, and then finding out they had turned around and bartered that off to Gold. . . Who was already unstable to say the least, and that even before Hook's shot – which must have only grazed Belle if at all, the worst damage by far was in her mind – had taken his girl's memory.

Emma sucked in a deep breath, trying to get herself under control. There were about a thousand and one questions she needed answered, and the clusterfuck with Whale and the stranger and her parents and Belle and Gold. She had to be a professional about this. Pronto.

Hook was stirring. A faint cry of pain bubbled up between his bloody lips, and a slit of blue showed beneath his long dark lashes. He opened them further, glanced down the bed, saw her, and froze.

They stared at each other for a long, lightheaded moment. Then he tried to move toward her, and was checked smartly by the handcuff. "Again? Fancy this, do you?"

"It's no one's fault but your own if you're tied up a lot." Despite all her efforts, Emma sounded too much like she'd been crying, and she didn't want him to think it was for him. "You're a pirate. I thought it would be par for the course."

He smirked. "Is it? _I_ thought it was something on your part. No worries, I don't mind a lass who knows her way around a silk scarf and a handcuff. Especially not a lass as blonde and lovely and forward as you."

"You're awfully chipper for a guy who failed to kill his enemy, then got hit by a car."

"Well, my ribs may be broken, but. . ." One of those horrible, god-awful, no-good very bad stomach-turning smoldering looks again. "Everything else is still intact. Which is more than I can say for other bad days. And I've done some quality damage to my foe."

"You hurt Belle."

"I hurt his heart. Belle's just where he keeps it." His eyes fluttered half shut again. "He killed my love, I know how it feels. Oh, and speaking of which. My hook. I want it back."

"No."

"Is there another attachment you'd prefer?"

 _He's been in this world for what, a little over a week?_ Knowing Hook, however, it was entirely possible that he'd already learned about vibrators – but that thought had to be killed with fire. "No, I said. Forget it. If you ever want to see it again, in fact, you are going to tell me right now anything and everything that you know about Cora's heart and any other weakness of hers."

"Oh, you do look so good when you do that. Commanding tone. _Chills."_

"You have a lot of sore places. I can make you hurt. And you don't seem too surprised to see me, when you left me in your cousin's damp little underworld. _Tricked_ me into staying there, so you could go after – "

"Did I lie?" He tried to cock his head, and grunted with pain again. "No. In fact, may I remind you that I was most excruciatingly honest. You were never in any doubt about my intentions to do exactly what I did, _and_ you had every choice to go onto Oz. Instead, you couldn't tear yourself away from me, and thus came with me back here."

"It's not that simple."

"Is it not? Keep telling yourself that, darling. And it seems you found the way out."

"Yeah!" She jerked up her jacket sleeve to show him the scraped mess of her arm. "You fucking _jackass!_ I found the way out! _All right!_ "

Hook stared at it, genuinely taken aback. He made an abortive motion with the stump of his left wrist, as if trying to reach for her. "Oh, lass," he said softly. "I didn't – "

"Yeah, I bet you've got something witty and inappropriate for that too. Save it." Emma got to her feet, cheeks burning. "I can see I'm not going to get anything out of you, not even an apology, much less anything about Cora. You're hurt. Probably hopped out of your mind on morphine, though I have to say you're just as much a perv as you are when not hopped out of your mind on morphine. So I'm just going to go and – " She spun on her heel.

"Lass," he said. "Swan. _Emma."_

Unwillingly, she stopped.

Hook jerked the handcuff again, with transparent irritation. "I don't know for certain where Cora's heart is," he said, "otherwise I'd have done the world a bloody favor and squashed it long since. But if it is where I think it is, it will be a bastard of a time getting there on your own. I, plainly, am unavailable to assist, so you'll have to think of a new plan."

"I'll. . . just go back to the border. Go through. Like I meant to in the firstplace."

"Will you? With the stranger come to town and the boundary the only thing stopping the tornado from destroying it? What happens now if you break that, love? Are you really willing to take that chance?" His voice was very serious. "I wouldn't. We _could_ also go back to the woods and try to return to the Locker, but that's undesirable for varied reasons."

"So. . . what, then?"

Hook hesitated. Then he said, "Cora and I didn't come through entirely alone."

"Oh _God."_ Emma finally turned back. "What are you talking about?"

"There's someone aboard the _Jolly Roger,_ love." He coughed. "I could show you. If you were willing to trust me."

"Someone. . ." Emma narrowed her eyes. "Is this some kind of. . .?"

"My darling, darling girl, but you do make me slave and sweat for every little inch I get, don't you?" He coughed again, a disturbingly aqueous sound. "No, you wouldn't have seen it earlier during our. . . ah. . . whirlwind tour, forgive the figure of speech. Enchantment. But if you'll think about this logically, you'll realize that we couldn't have come _straight_ to Storybrooke from Lake Nostros. We had to stop off and get my ship. And. . ."

"And?"

He looked like he was trying valiantly to keep smiling, but was still in horrible pain. "And its passenger."

" _Who is?"_

He managed to keep the smile, faint and agonized. "Magic beans ring any bells, lass?"

"What. . . I don't. . . magic _beans?_ Are you. . . no, seriously, are you telling me. . ."

"He's shrunk, drugged, shut in a cage, and not much bloody use to anyone right now. In fact, I can't fathom why Cora brought him along, though I'll hazard a wild guess that it was to commit something terrible. Not that I like the chap much meself, but he _is_ our only shot of getting back to Oz now."

"Oh God. . . the giant, you brought the fucking _giant?"_ Emma couldn't fathom if he'd be happy to see her or not. She wouldn't be happy to see her, if she was him. "But all the beans, weren't they dried up or gone or. . ."

Hook shrugged and stopped halfway through with a gargoyle expression. "Worth a shot, innit?"

"Yeah, we just had someone called Greg Mendel come to town, too," Emma said sarcastically. "I'm sure he's _magically_ a total expert on bean cultivation, right?"

Hook looked baffled. "Who?"

"Greg Mendel. . . there was this scientist called Gregor Mendel in the nineteenth century, he did a lot of experiments with beans and finding their traits. . . never mind. He's going to cause us all kinds of trouble, even if he didn't see you and Gold going at it like gangbusters." Emma rubbed a hand across her eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm dead on my feet. I haven't eaten or slept since before your little tornado stunt."

"Kip here with me. There's plenty of room." He tapped the bed with his stump, grinning.

"In your dreams," she told him, and startled as she reached for her cell phone, which was buzzing in her back pocket. "Oh. Shit. Someone's calling. Look, don't get into any more. . ."

"Trouble?" he finished wryly. "What? Do I look like I attract it?"

" _Attract it?_ Yeah. Just a little. Just a very, very little. In fact, so much that if I had to pick Dead Guy of the Year. . ." She still couldn't quite take her eyes off him, couldn't stop her lips from quirking into a sad, tender smile. "I'd pick you."

And with that, she ducked out into the antiseptic hospital corridor beyond, and fled.

\----------

The call was from the nurse's station. They wanted to tell her that Whale had been located by Ruby, that Greg was in surgery, and that someone wanted to see her.

"Someone. . .?" Emma repeated, startled. "Is it Gold?"

"It's not. I don't know him." The nurse frowned. "He's in the waiting room over there, if you want. He said it was important."

 _Greg?_ Emma's heart lurched. It was entirely possible that his family had turned on the find-a-phone feature, that one of them had driven up here in a panic, and now it was going to blow up into a giant mushroom cloud unless firmly tamped down. In that case, she did have to deal with it. Had to put on her Sheriff Swan face and get this under control. Now. She'd already wasted too much time just sitting and waiting for Hook to wake up. She hadn't had the heart to do it herself.

"Yeah," she said absently. "Yeah, all right. Just. . . keep me posted, all right?"

"Of course, Sheriff." The nurse turned back to attend a call coming through her walkie-talkie. Something about Belle. Something about her flipping out. Backup needed.

Emma grimaced, wondered how on earth that was going to go over, and turned, straightening her back and clearing her throat. Put on her big-girl panties, strode into the waiting room, empty but for one man –

– and stopped dead.

This time she didn't scream, which was a marked improvement from last time. Instead, after about a minute of stunned staring, her voice came out hard and cold and hollow. "You."

"Me." Neal Cassady held out his hands. "I. . . please, Emma, let me explain, just let me explain, all right? I heard there was shit going down tonight, I wanted to come here and support you, I'm not trying to ambush you, okay? Just – I didn't even get a chance to say anything before, I scared you, I know I should have called or something, but – "

"What makes you think you have the _right_ to say anything?"Emma hissed. All of her previous resolve to handle this situation like an adult was shriveling up like – like, well, a dead magic bean. "That you have the right to stand here and look me in the eye and talk to me like you didn't _abandon_ me and bust me like a low-down coward for _your_ crime?"

"Emma, please!" He cut in over her. " _Please_ listen. Do you know a guy named August Booth?"

That threw her so utterly for a loop that she fell silent. Yes, of course. She did. Even though he hadn't been seen around town in ages, since as far as she knew – Marco was resolutely close-mouthed about it – he had turned entirely to wood and hadn't turned back when the curse broke. _Thanks to me._ But this – how could fucking _Neal –_ how could –

"All right," she said tightly. "You have two minutes. Start talking."

"Okay. Look, on the night I turned you in, after I left you in the car, he chased me down and jumped me and told me that he'd been looking for you for two years. That you'd been in the same home together as kids and he thought you'd be safe in the system, but now you'd aged out and were robbing convenience stores with. . . with me." His unshaven throat moved as he swallowed. "He said you had a destiny to break the curse on this place, here, and that if I really loved you, I'd let you go."

"He _told_ you to leave me?" Emma repeated, numb. Assuming this wasn't just some horribly sadistic lie. . . but how would Neal know about August otherwise? Supposedly he was a writer, maybe Neal had seen his name on some airport paperback or book review or something and concocted a preposterous extortion plot for quick cash. . . but to know _who_ August was, how he was related to her. . . "He actually _said,_ all right Neal, call the cops and turn her in?" If August _wasn't_ wood, she was going to kill him with her bare hands.

"He said. . . he just said it had to be dealt with, he wouldn't let me go back and get the watches and take the fall myself. I offered, Emma, I swear I offered. I don't know why he wouldn't let me. I guess he was afraid you'd know something was up, he. . ."

"And you _agreed_ to this?" Emma sounded, she knew, exactly like the broken, abandoned little girl she used to be. Her voice was a wreck, her knees were shaking, she wanted to crawl into a hole and die. "You said okay, this sounds like a great plan?"

"He. . . he showed me something. I. . . had to."

" _You left me alone!_ You could have told him to go _fuck_ himself, and – "

"And then what?" He moved closer. "The curse would never have been broken?"

"That is beside the point, Neal. It is _fucking_ beside the point."

"No, it's not. I would have done anything, I swear, to – "

" _You gave me up."_ The agony inside her was shattering. "You could have fought for me. You could have said, we'll do this together. You could have done a thousand other things beside what you did. You knew who I was, you knew where I was from, you knew about my issues and my neuroses and my deepest fear of being abandoned again, and _you gave me away."_

"I. . . yeah." He blew out a breath. "Nothing is ever going to make that right. I know. That's why I came here. I would have come earlier, honest. But stuff with the parole officers and making sure they think I'm not trying to do a bunk. . . I've been living squeaky clean in Manhattan, nine years now. I have a nice place. An actual job. I want to show you that I've changed. I want to make it up to you."

Emma laughed. Laughed so she wouldn't start to sob uncontrollably. Drown herself in tears, like a real fairytale princess. "Look, Neal. We already have one outsider here, who's going to cause us an assload of trouble. We don't need another. _I_ don't need another. Thanks for having the guts to finally explain yourself, but after ten years, there's no goddamn gold star for you. I want you to pack up your stuff, and I want you to leave. Tonight."

He looked at her helplessly. "Is that what you want? Emma, you _told_ me never to contact you again, that letter you wrote from jail, when you said. . ."

 _Oh God._ She'd just realized how this could get even worse. And worse again was the fact that she _had_ told him to stay out of her life for good. If he really honestly thought that he was respecting her wishes. . . _I want to show you that I've changed._ Everyone in her life wanted to prove that right now, in varying measures. Her parents, Regina. . . for chrissakes, _Regina,_ her pretty much mortal enemy the entire time until the curse broke. . . if she was willing to admit that it was possible for _Regina Effing Mills_ to change. . .

"Baby?" Neal said tentatively, seeing her hesitation.

"Don't you dare call me that." What was she going to do? She could order him to leave, but she couldn't really arrest him if he didn't. Just like she couldn't arrest Greg for driving unwittingly into the middle of this, however much she wanted to. Toss them both in the clank and throw away the key. She started to turn, to go.

At that moment, however, she heard hastening footsteps. Coming toward the waiting room, and she thought it was the nurse. _Please God let it be the nurse._ Coming to tell her –

"Mom?" Henry poked his head around the door. "Mom, are you okay? They're all looking for you, Greg is out of surgery and Gramma really wants you to come and hear – "

" _Mom?"_ Neal looked like he was about to have a heart attack and die. "Oh my God. . . Emma. . . I thought you wanted to give the kid away forever. . . Jesus Christ, is that. . .?"

Emma Swan felt her world turning black around her. She thought she was going to faint.

"Who are you?" Henry cocked his head. "Mom, who's that? Excuse me, mister, do I know you?"

Neal kept staring as if someone had poleaxed him across the skull. It was a miracle he was still upright. "Yeah," he wheezed. "Yeah, you know me, I guess."

"I don't. . ." A frown raced like a stormcloud over Henry's face. Then, with that horrible perception of his, it clicked. He whirled on her.

"You told me that my dad was a firefighter!" he cried. "You told me that he was _dead!_ That he died a _hero!_ I asked you and you _lied_ to me!"

"No," Emma croaked. "Henry – please, listen to me, I didn't want to hurt you, I didn't think you needed to know. . . it was so hard, I was eighteen and scared shitless, I just wanted to give you your best chance, you know that – " Heart breaking anew, she reached out for him.

Her son backed away. "You _lied_ to me," he said again, sounding simultaneously much older and younger than eleven. "Did you tell me the truth about anything? Why? Did you even _want_ me?"

"Henry, sweetheart – " The first time she'd ever called him that, not _kid_ or _buddy_ or any of the other casual ways she addressed him, like a cool big sister instead of a dorky mom. "Please, please, let me _explain – "_ The irony crashed on her, hard as a hammer, that just minutes ago, she was the one furious and determined not to let Neal explain himself. That just hours ago, she was the one who told her parents that there was no way to make this okay. "It's complicated – "

Henry didn't say anything else. He just stood staring at her like he had never seen her before in his life. Then he turned and ran.

\----------

Killian Jones hurt. A whole bloody pissing lot. Not the worst he'd hurt, not even the worst his chest had hurt, but enough that he kept banging the little witchery that was supposed to make it _stop_ hurting. The _morphine,_ he thought his Swan girl had called it, yet it wasn't working. He was drifting in a half-doze, in too much pain to sleep again, and hoping that she would come back. Not a whole hell of a lot else to pass the time.

He'd been briefly excited when the door opened, but his spirits were immediately deflated when it was a dowdy nurse with a tray of something that she was audacious enough to call _food._ After poking through the almost unidentifiable substance, including the red jiggling stuff that looked like some sort of poison or explosive, he concluded that they must be trying to kill him again on the sly, and he had no intention of indulging their nefarious schemes. Even though a few hours ago, he'd been trying to goad the Dark One into just that. _Never thought I would die by goo, though._ For a dread pirate like himself, there was a reputation at stake.

His wrist was starting to chafe. He jerked hard on his handcuff and snarled in frustration when it failed to give. His ribs ached sorely with every breath, and his infirmity annoyed him further. You didn't live for three hundred years, even in Neverland, by being a fainting pansy, and on the infrequent occasions he did get sick, he'd been a terrible patient. Especially now, the thought that he was flat on his back while the world went on. . . up in flames, more like. . .

Killian shifted with another grunt. It had not escaped his attention that instead of turning back to the Locker or anywhere else, the lass had come after him. Even after he had, so far as she knew, left her behind. He hadn't _meant_ to. But when he'd seen the Dark One and his woman standing right at the edge. . it was too good to pass up, he couldn't, everything fled but the memory of Milah dying in his arms and he had to, he had to do what he said, and finish his revenge. He hadn't lied to Emma, he was no liar to her. But still. . .

It was as dark and jumbled as if everything inside him had been thrown to the floor and smashed, like when he'd shot the mirror on his ship. Miserable and fragile and fucking _furious_. That had driven him to the moment when he'd pulled the trigger on Belle. The fact he'd explained, patiently as a schoolmarm, to any number of people over the centuries. _I am a bad man._

He closed his eyes again. Gods, he wanted to bloody sleep, but fire was still scorching up his sides. Magic in this world was sorely ill-advanced, so he was really going to have to hope Emma came back and patched him up. Strange that he'd been so dead-set on dying, now was confessing to her about the giant and hatching madcap schemes, going to all sorts of lengths he shouldn't. . . but he was _happy_ when he was with her, he knew that now, and she'd protected him when she should have cut his throat. It was strange. So strange.

He was still lying like that when he heard the door open again, and he felt his wounded heart upturn. "Come to tell me what the hell this stuff is, lass?" he called. "I can't imagine they actually want me to eat it."

"They do, in fact." The voice was not Emma's. Nor even a woman's. "It's called Jell-O, in fact. Delicacy of this world. A pity if you never tried it."

Killian's eyes bolted open. He yanked at his handcuff one more time, madly, uselessly.

"No luck, dearie," Rumplestiltskin said, soft as a blade through the ribs. "I've just been in to see Belle. She doesn't know me. Nothing works. Not true love's kiss, not her cup, nothing. If her memory had come back, even now, I might have been induced to spare your miserable life. Which, so far as I can tell, you don't even want to have anymore. But no. It's irreversible."

"So was what you did to Milah," Killian breathed. "You fucking _bastard."_

Gold smiled. It was no smile. "It seems I can't count on the Charmings for anything these days," he said, and rolled up his sleeves. "One deal after another, broken. All for you. Well, dearie. That's about to change. I'm terribly sorry, but now I'm going to kill you. We can get this over with. Cleanly. Like gentlemen."

The worst thing was, Killian couldn't exactly refute that. So far as it went, the bloody crocodile was right. He did want to die. Be reunited with Milah. End this jape of a life.

So why not just let him do it?

Easy thing. Easiest thing.

And yet as the Dark One took a step, readying the murderous magic –

Killian filled his bruised, cracked, trampled-on lungs, and bellowed, "SWAN!"


	16. Catch Me If You Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT EVERYONE: I'm now on Tumblr. Life=over. If you feel like you need my particular brand of crazy in your life more often, along with sneak previews of this fic, other mini-fics and drabbles by me, general Captain Swan flailing, and other goodies, I suggest you follow me at lady-silverblood.tumblr.com. I cannot promise that it is a quality blog, but at least, it will probably amuse you.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and support. I so much appreciate it.
> 
> And now: chapter ahoy!

"Regina!" Archie Hopper pleaded as the hatch cover clattered off, levitated by threads of violet magic that burned unnaturally in the darkness of the _Jolly Roger's_ hold. "Please, Regina, listen to me, this isn't you! Come on. We can still work through this together. This isn't the way to solve your problems. What would Henry think?"

Regina had been standing silently by, torn, as her mother inserted the captive cricket into the black, bilge-smelling depths of the pirate ship, but at this, her head jerked up. "I am _doing_ this for Henry," she snapped back at him. "We're not even hurting you. We just. . . can't have you interfering. After you walked in on us, what you heard. . ."

"Already _we,_ is it?" the psychiatrist asked gently, making no attempt to escape as Cora lashed him hand and foot to the wall. "Imprisoning an innocent man, when we'd been trying so hard to overcome your issues? Remember, Regina. You're strong enough. You can let go of this need to control, to keep close and conquer and destroy. With Daniel – "

That, however, was exactly the worst thing he could have said. Regina's hands flared with magic to match her mother's, and she directed a lasso of searing flame that made him yelp and jerk his head back, leaving a distinct stench of scorched ginger hair in its wake. "Don't you _dare,"_ she breathed. "I don't _care_ if you got your M.D. from a curse, even you should know better than to just. . . How dare you talk about him in front of – "

"I didn't take him from you, Regina," Archie reminded her sadly. "And no matter how far you went down that dark path – down _this_ dark path – it didn't bring him back. It won't bring Henry back, either. When you change, you can't just think about things differently. You have to go about things differently as well."

Regina regarded him silently for one long, fraught moment. Then she stepped away and kicked the hatch grate back into place with a sepulchral clang, drowning out Archie's last impassioned importune from below. She couldn't say that she cared much for this place. The crew quarters of a pirate ship weren't about to appear in _Condé Nast Traveler_ any time soon, although this _was_ nicer than the cramped, filthy hammocks that were usually a buccaneer's lot. As well, since the ship remained invisible, there was slim-to-no chance of anyone finding Hopper before they were ready to release him. _If_ they released him. It seemed like the sort of loose end that her mother didn't tend to leave hanging.

Regina shot a narrow look at Cora's back. The witch was presently engaged in a diligent search for – something, running her gloved hands along the ratty pinstriped mattresses and under the splintery wooden chests. If it was treasure that she was after, Regina thought scornfully that she was wasting her time. No pirate interested in surviving more than twelve hours aboard a floating thieves' emporium would stash his valuables under his pillow; it was rare that they ever even got around to burying it. If so, any mutineer or deserter had to be hunted down and killed straightaway, so he didn't do a bunk and go filch it all for himself.

From the looks of things, however, Captain Hook ran a tight ship. The sort of man that other men liked to follow, who remained openhanded with the plunder, liquor, punch-ups, and women (or as Regina imagined they called it, the booty, booze, brawls, and bitches) while never allowing them to forget who quite literally called the shots. Pirates were more altruistic, at least in regard to other pirates, than they were customarily given credit for. As exemplified in the scenario of one man potentially stealing the treasure of the others, if you couldn't count absolutely on your mate in a tight corner, the lot of you would soon be feeding the crows while merrily swinging on the harbormaster's yardarm. Or lying at the bottom of the sea while mer-children gamed with your bones, or any other number of gruesome and fatal disadvantages.

Be that as it may, however, the pirate reputation for treachery was equally founded, and it suddenly hit Regina what her mother must be doing. Hook himself had somehow avoided coming over to Storybrooke with the curse, an explanation which certainly had everything to do with Cora herself and the con job the two of them had pulled over on Regina upon their return from Wonderland, but the members of his crew had had no such protection. Regina didn't know the name of _everyone_ she'd ripped out of the Enchanted Forest; she didn't care how many thousands or hundreds of thousands of commoners were caught up in the crossfire, as long as Snow and Charming suffered. But if they were _here,_ and inclined to hold grudges after twenty-eight years of Hook's contrivance to avoid their fate instead of taking it on with them like a good pirate, the fundamental responsibility of every captain to go down with the ship . . .

A slow smile curled Regina's lips. She eyed Cora's continued search with new interest, wondering if it would be advisable to locate something herself. Somewhere along the way, she didn't remember exactly when, she'd decided that she had to give her mother at least the semblance of a chance. The damage between them ran too deep to be forgotten, but part of Regina was still an awkward, insecure, eager-to-please teenage girl who wanted nothing more than for her powerful, self-assured mother to love her. If she was the child and the mother at once, if she could find a way to have Henry and Cora both. . . she hadn't forgotten that she'd told her son that Cora would hurt him if she could, but if somehow by some miracle she was wrong and Cora genuinely wanted to reconcile. . . she _wanted_ to be wrong, for once. . .

At that moment, Regina's reverie was interrupted by Cora herself making a sound of triumph and holding up an item of clothing which was fully as disreputable as the rest of the surroundings. It likewise smelled as if the owner hadn't washed it in twenty-eight years, which was entirely probable; if Hook's crew had come over with the curse, the _Roger_ must have sat more or less unused. But going door-to-door in sedate, small-town Storybrooke this late at night was not the formula for recruiting willing accomplices, and Regina knew that she still had enough of a PR fiasco on her hands _without_ spreading the information at large that Cora was here. Unless –

"Come, dear," Cora said serenely, ignoring the faint banging noises that indicated Archie was still trying to get their attention. "We have what we need." Without a backward glance, she swept out of the room, the lantern dousing of its own accord.

Regina hurried to keep up with her. Some things never changed; she was still trailing at her mother's heels. "What is that? What are we doing?"

"Earlier, before I solved your Emma Swan problem for you, our dear captain chanced to cross paths with an old acquaintance." Cora began to mount the narrow wooden steps back to the deck, with her usual aloof elegance. "His first mate. I believe he was intending to have the man kidnap the Swan girl, of all the half-baked plans. That was quite as much a debacle as I expected, but no matter. Does the name William Smee ring a bell?"

"Should it?" Regina asked warily.

"We'll see." Cora smiled that feline smile, and raised a hand.

At once, the ship rocked as the gangway lowered itself, landing with a clunk on the shore. They hadn't found it moored up in its usual place, as the pirate had sailed it out into the bay in response to something Cora had mentioned about a sea monster, but that had not posed much of a threat to two sorceresses of their caliber, and they'd brought it in in order to deposit Archie upon it. Now that they were safely disposed of that business, Cora, with one more languid gesture, shooed the ship back into deeper water. But while it was quickly fading from sight, Regina caught a glimpse of a strange bulky shape on the deck. Like a box, or a crate.

"Mother," she said impulsively. "What's that?"

"What's what, dear?"

"That." But even as Regina was pointing, the ship completed the process of vanishing from view in the invisibility enchantment, and she was left gesturing rather uselessly at an empty ocean. "There was something on the deck, I didn't. . ."

Cora looked puzzled. "Just cargo, I'm sure. You know I only came here to reunite with you, darling. I. . . I am so sorry for that scene, earlier, when you felt as if the cricket couldn't speak Daniel's name in front of me. The pain of that, the mistake, will never leave me. If I'd known you'd loved him so much. . ." She shook her head. "My precious daughter."

Regina's throat felt choked, and she glanced away, not trusting her own reaction. She didn't want to forgive Cora for that, but she did, most devoutly, want Henry to forgive her for everything she herself had done, and she was at least honest enough to want to reconcile it. She'd always been her father's girl, but she'd always wanted to be her mother. . .

Maybe there was still a chance. After everything. Feuds, looking glasses, world portals, and more. For all the danger and heartbreak and wrath and ruin they'd wreaked on each other.

 _She burned my house,_ Regina reminded herself. Even in her desperation for her own happy-ever-after, the reason she'd cast the curse in the first place, she wasn't going to make the mistake of looking past her mother again. But she just had to be careful.

She shook her head and turned away, back to Cora. "What's next?"

"These." Cora shook out the pungent-smelling overalls. "The less time we have to spend with these, the better. Now, since I know you still don't trust me, if you would do the honors?"

At that, Regina understood. "A tracking spell."

"Yes indeed." Cora held it out with that smile which had always terrified Regina whenever she'd seen it in childhood. "We pay a call on our dear William Smee."

\---------

Emma Swan didn't even recall being consciously aware that something was wrong. Didn't even recall moving, really. But something in the back of her head was chirping at her, _screaming_ at her, and she was running, she was _fleeing,_ from the place where she'd confronted Neal, where her son had run from her, and she was shouldering down the hall even though she'd already been awake for most of the night and had already interrogated Greg Mendel the best she could when it felt like her heart was falling apart inside her, and told the others that he was texting and it was all clear and it was fine _but it wasn't –_

She was dead on her feet, her arm fiercely sore and bruised, but something propelled her forward faster, down the hall to where she'd hidden Hook in one of the hospital's rarely used wings – in a place this podunk, even with magical misadventures thrown into the bargain, they weren't exactly overflowing with attempted homicides and domestic disturbances and beautiful broken pirates from alternate dimensions. She could sense something, a hot crackling on the back of her neck that strangled her when she breathed in, and she knew. Magic. And more than that, death.

Emma threw herself through the door just in time. As a matter of fact, she took the brunt of something she never even saw, something screaming and white-hot and as hard as being hit by a fully loaded freight train, and the next thing she knew, she was falling. The linoleum hospital floor smashed up to meet her, and she rolled away by instinct, spitting out blood and hearing her ears ringing and screeching as her heart imitated the approximate temperament and tenor of a lightning farm. Which didn't seem too far off. Gasping, she somersaulted to her feet.

She was greeted by an up-close and personal look at the business end of Gold's cane, which was currently swinging toward her head. She lashed out with an old karate instinct to block it; no one lasted long in her life without a considerable stash of self-defense skills. She could feel stray pulses of static electricity snapping between her fingers, but she was still upright, still functioning, and to judge by the look on Gold's face, that was not a common outcome whenever he used that spell.

"Miss Swan," the pawnbroker said, in the most painful simulacrum of courtesy that had ever been forced through a set of (more or less) human teeth. "What would you be doing here?"

"I – want – to ask you – the same question." Emma gulped a fizzing, sparking breath. "Are – you _insane?_ This – a _hospital!"_

"Lass," she heard Hook say from the bed behind her. "Emma – "

She wanted to look around, she had never wanted anything so badly in her life as she wanted to look and see if any of that had hit him and if he was still breathing, if he was still there, if because he was tied down he couldn't get away, but he was talking at least and she had bigger fish to fry. Instead, she kept her attention trained on Gold. "Look. I know you're upset about what happened to Belle. I don't blame you. But killing Hook is not going to solve that."

"On the contrary. It _will_ solve everything." Gold smiled. "Perhaps not for you, dearie, but for me, beyond a doubt."

"Fine, then." Emma wasn't really up for another dose of voltage like the one she had just taken, but there was nothing on earth to make her move. "You're going through me."

For a moment, she was convinced he was going to call her bluff, and she sucked in her breath, praying that there would be dental records or something to identify her corpse later, so her parents didn't have to remain in the agony of doubt. Then she remembered what her parents had done, the deal they'd made, and pain from an entirely different source surged up. She would just have to live with this. And very shortly, die with it.

But instead of summoning another titanic blast of murderous magic, Gold cocked his head and scrutinized her intently, as if he was finally seeing what exactly he was up against. Not the clueless, hard-headed, tough-minded but well-meaning drifter who had first fetched up in town, not the product of true love who'd broken the curse, and not even as his mortal enemy – which by rights was something she was well on the way to becoming. Instead he stepped closer.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Miss Swan?" he asked. "Are you very sure? You've already used deep magic, uncontrolled, and you would be well advised to look at what _just once_ cost you. You used it to heal Hook – don't lie, he has your scent all over him, and I recall rather clearly that I shot him before he attempted to acquaint you so closely with the beauty of extreme weather phenomena. And now. . . your parents have made a deal with me that is still binding regardless of what they think, they've destroyed their moral high ground, you've lost your trust in them, and your son has just abandoned you after discovering your lie to him. All for the sake of saving Hook's life, when he himself has demonstrated every desire to throw it away – I repeat, _once._ Twice. . . there are some prices that even I have never asked anyone to pay, dearie. And you are coming _very close."_

Emma flinched. _"How did you know. . .?"_

"I know everything that goes on in this town." Gold took another step. "Everything. Regina may have sent us here, and you may have broken the curse, but Storybrooke will always belong to me, and almost everyone here still owes me a favor. Unlike you, Miss Swan, they keep their bargains. Is that what you want? This game goes two ways. If I call in all of those at once, if I tell them to go after you. . ."

Emma tried and failed to keep her expression neutral. "And?"

Gold actually laughed. "You're a fearless and brave girl, I'll give you that. But no matter what powers you have or don't, you can't win against everything I can and _will_ throw at you."

" _And?"_

"Again, Miss Swan, this is all rhetorical. An illustration, if you will, of how you cannot possibly hope to beat me with force. But. . ." Another step. "There's still a chance for you to redeem yourself and cause this to be settled without tearing the town apart."

"You really think I'm going to – ?"

"Oh, no." He smiled twistedly. "I don't expect the _sheriff_ of Storybrooke to put her duty to every soul in this town over the life of one criminal. Especially when she herself is fond of reminding us of her obligation to do just that. Whyever would I? How foolish."

Emma felt cold sweat start to trickle down her back. _I can't win this way._ Or the other way. The only choice she had. . .

. . . was to step aside and let him kill Hook.

And that wasn't even a choice. She couldn't. It was like asking her to walk on her hands, to breathe water, to drown. _You would have done the same. Actually, no._ She didn't even trust him, he'd left her behind again, give him half a chance and he'd be out of this bed like gangbusters. The only reason he wasn't doing so right now was because of the cuff and the broken ribs, but he was watching this, watching her put herself between him and his crocodile. . .

 _You made a_ deal _with Gold? Even after everything that just happened?_ She'd screamed that at her parents in horror, discovering what they'd pledged in exchange for her return. But she had nothing. She was at an end. In a moment she was going to have to do the same.

_No. No. No._

She would never recover from this.

Slowly, Emma raised her hands. "Okay, then," she whispered. "Me first."

"Swan." Hook's – Killian's – voice behind her. "Emma, love. Emma, no. Not that way. No. No, don't. Lass, please."

"I do believe someone cares for you," Gold remarked. "The last time I was in this situation, however, he was tied to a mast instead of a hospital bed, and he actually had something that I wanted. Now, it's finally come full circle. I am not going to enjoy killing you, Miss Swan, but unless you get out of the way, that's what, I'm afraid, it has come down to."

Was her resilience going to be enough to withstand a second time? Did it even matter? All Gold had to do was keep on slinging shots until one of them hit paydirt. By that time, they'd both be dead, and Storybrooke would be in ruins. Hot tears were starting to sting her eyes, blinding her. How could it end like this? How could it be meant to? All the prices she'd paid already were not enough. _Nobody ever breaks a bargain with me._

She was shaking with exhaustion and fear and grief. She couldn't think of anything else to do. She was drawing an utter blank. This was it. The end of her story. No happy ever after. Just a nightmare.

And then, revealing the bloody, scraped mess of her arm, her sleeve fell down.

\---------

Cora and Regina stayed well in the woods, away from the road, as the sirens lit up the dark night and the rush of activity and panic hurried by in all directions. Cora seemed mildly interested in the whole affair, especially as catastrophes had always been her specialty, but she was too interested in following the tracking spell to comment on it. Regina stayed close behind her, watching the overalls glow sullenly, growing brighter or dimmer depending on their path. She had never been this close to the town boundary herself, and she had to admit that it was unsettling her. Rumple had been the one to craft the curse for her, of course, and she was fully aware that its effects would bite her as well if she tested it. Doubtless the twisted little imp had found the irony delightful. _Magic always comes with a price._

"Mother?" she whispered. "We're not – ?"

"Patience, dear." Cora turned off through the trees. "We're almost. . . ah!"

With that, she bent down and made a grab at something scuttling at their feet. Regina choked on a yelp of disgust as she realized that the thing in her mother's hand was a squirming fat rat. It was by no means the first rat she'd ever seen, they being something of a ubiquitous ingredient in dark magic, but they were likewise never one she had appreciated. "Mother! Put it down, it's going to – "

Cora clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "All these years, dear, and you still can't recognize a simple transmogrification spell when you see one?"

That brought Regina up short. "I – what?"

Cora sighed again, gave her daughter a disappointed look, and placed the rat back down at their feet. It tried to run, but achieved approximately six inches of progress before it was engulfed by a cloud of smoke, whirling it up and around in a distinctly ungraceful spiral, until it – no longer a rat but a short dumpy man, arguably still vermin – was lying facefirst in the mud, coughing and sputtering and covering his head. "Don't hurt me!" he squealed. "I'm unarmed! Don't hurt me! Whatever it was, I didn't do it!"

Cora smiled. "William Smee?"

That caused the decidedly unimpressive little bastard, still blinking from his abrupt de-ratting, to scramble around and stare at her. Whatever he saw apparently frightened him back into stupefaction, as he emitted a faint wheeze like a stepped-on bladder. The only thing he seemed capable of saying, over and over, was, "Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not here to hurt you." Cora swept over. "Yet. How did you end up like this?"

"I – he turned me, he turned me into a rat, he poured potion on my hat and made me cross the town line and once it worked, he _turned me into a rat!_ I ran into the woods, there was some horrible dark stuff, it almost got me, I didn't – "

Cora jerked up a hand. "Stop. There was what?"

"Some – stuff!" An erudite vocabulary was clearly not one of Mr. Smee's strong suits. In fact, it was hard to distinguish what his strong suits _were._ "Black and horrible and cold, it nearly got me, I didn't – "

Cora seized him under the chin, twisting a fistful of his grubby shirt, and Smee's eyes crossed as he attempted to look down at her hand. "You will take us to it."

Once she dropped him, Smee was only too glad to comply. He swung around on all fours, apparently with more than a touch of the rat still remaining, and galumphed off through the dark forest, making Regina briefly suspicious that he intended to lead them into a trap, but traps by their very nature were cerebral exercises. So while she prepared a fistful of magic just in case, she hastened after the pirate and her mother.

They arrived shortly thereafter at a trampled-down space in the woods, where – just as Smee had promised – a strange dark coldness seemed to linger like tar on the ground, the tree trunks, and the dead leaves. Regina's nostrils flared. She was certain she smelled blood.

Cora had noticed the same thing. With a cursory gesture to her daughter to guard their prisoner, for whatever guarding he required, she knelt down, illuminated her work with a glow of magic, and within moments, held up a good-sized chunk of rock that was spattered with crimson stains. She turned it over, eyeing it consideringly, then all at once, arrived at a conclusion. With quiet, savage satisfaction, she said, "The netherworld."

Regina frowned. "What?"

"The netherworld." That smile began to reappear, crossing Cora's face far more than she ever usually allowed it to; a lady always kept rein of her emotions, after all. "Someone's opened a portal to it. And gotten out of it recently as well, very clumsily." She held up the bloodstained rock. "Enough to let one person escape, but not enough to close it off. So it's still here. I can get back into it. And you know that small fact about the netherworld?"

Regina's frown deepened. She had in fact become familiar with the netherworld during her work on perfecting the sleeping curse – she knew that your soul went there both when you were under one, and when you slept after waking from one. But the netherworld was, in a very real sense, death. That was why it was dangerous to go too deep, and if you ever found yourself in there bodily, you very rarely returned. Only the most uniquely gifted and magical could.

And that meant –

"Emma," Regina said, cold and flat.

"What was that?" Cora was still too enamored of her prize. Still not listening.

"Emma," Regina repeated. She was sure of it. "After she and the pirate jumped into the tornado together, from that image you showed me. They must have inadvertently ended up in the space between worlds. And now they're back here. They got out of it."

"Did they?" Cora glanced up. She still did not appear very perturbed. "So?"

"Mother," Regina said angrily. "If there is an uncontrolled netherworld portal active here, then it's their fault! It's a giant open sewer of poison, and it'll spread, take over and kill this entire town, if you don't – "

"And since when do you care about them?"

"I don't. I care about Henry." She bit her son's name sharply, impressing on her mother what was at stake. "Shut it."

"No, dear." Cora shook her head. "You don't understand. Netherworlds, by their very nature, lead _everywhere._ This is an open gate to anywhere I need to go, for anything I need to collect, from any world at all. Anything I care to, I can go in and bring here."

Regina stared at her. "You're out of your mind. No human being can travel all the way through the netherworld even once and survive."

"No human being," Cora repeated. "No _ordinary mortal_ human being, with a heart. But as you may know, I've kept mine safely hidden somewhere very far away, for a very long time. You are correct, no one can come and go through this place as they please. . . except me. Darling, don't you understand what this means? _We've won._ Flying monkeys. Food from Wonderland to re-grow my. . . special guest. My old friend Morgana and all her dark sorceries. There is _no limit_ on what we can bring to Storybrooke now, and we have Emma and her pirate paramour to thank."

Regina's mind was reeling. She could only now grasp the scale of what her mother was suggesting, how in a night's work, they could rip apart every boundary that had ever existed between this world and any other. All by a mad fluke of chance, and Cora's forethought in collecting an item of Smee's off the _Jolly Roger._ She could show Henry the full range of the weird and wild and wondrous and bizarre, all the magic, all the ways she had taken, all the secrets she'd uncovered, everything she was doing to keep him safe. But if this brigade of dark magic _was_ unleashed on the world. . . last time when she'd made the turnover, she'd only retrieved an apple from the other side, and look what _that_ had done. . .

"My dear," Cora said. "I do hope you're not having second thoughts now."

In her mind's eye, Regina saw the image again. Emma and the pirate, falling into the whirlwind together. Tangled in a lover's embrace. _He's my son._

The Swan girl and her parents had already taken too much from her. Not this too. She couldn't. She couldn't stand it. Let her have just this. Just Henry. She wouldn't kill anyone if she didn't have to. She'd do everything she could to show him that her repentance was sincere. No matter what Archie, presumably still adrift in the bowels of the pirate ship, would think. She could match up to her mother now. This time it would be different.

"No," Regina said, and took a deep breath. "I'm not."

Cora smiled. Reached down with both hands.

And tore the netherworld open.

\---------

"I am nothing if not a professional, Miss Swan." Gold's voice was level. Too level. "And that doesn't look like the sort of wound I inflict. Would you mind telling me where you got it?"

"Gold." Emma looked back at him, utterly drained. "This isn't the time for small talk."

"Believe me, dearie, this is anything but small talk. As you will notice, I'm not even killing Hook, and if you tell me, I won't. . . for now. Where did you get it?"

Emma hesitated, but the whole "not killing Hook" thing was kind of a point. She had no choice but to confess how they'd ended up in Davy Jones' Locker, and how they'd gotten out of it. Not the kiss part. God, no. She managed to make it sound like a fortuitous accident, though who knew how much of it Gold bought, but she did include the stuff about smashing her own arm up with a rock after witnessing the confrontation at the boundary line. Keenly aware of Hook stone-silent in the bed behind her, she went into rather more graphic detail than needed. Let him know just what she'd had to do, thanks to him.

When she was done, Gold was gazing back at her with a funny expression. Not angry. Almost. . . no, couldn't be. Not him.

Worried.

"You left a portal to the netherworld open in the woods?" he repeated at last. "Of all the dangerous, lunatic, idiotic things. . . you really don't know the first thing about magic, do you? You reacted in emotion, used your blood to get out of that place, and you did it in the worst imaginable way. Remember what I said earlier, about prices so great that even I have never asked them? About what you're going to give up in exchange for saving this worthless scum's life, _twice?"_

Emma didn't answer. She couldn't.

"You're about to pay it." Gold showed his teeth. _"We're_ about to pay it. And I include myself in that assessment. You, your family, your son, your. . . dear friend here. Everything you were trying to save, you're going to lose." He shook his head again. _"You foolish, foolish child."_

She really wished she had some way to answer him, some way to defend. She didn't. She was speechless. He was right.

_All magic comes with a price._

Love was the most costly magic of all. And as great as it could be, as soaring, as true, as much as it had saved Henry's life, as much as it had acted to break the curse. . . if it had given her that blessing, it must be coming back in even worse retribution. . . for her, for her heart, for her solitary soul, for everything she knew she couldn't take a chance on. . .

And had. Despite everything. Was still standing here because she refused to let Captain Hook, Killian Jones, be butchered in his hospital bed for something he probably deserved. Scratch that. _Definitely_ deserved. A handsome, charming psychopath was no less a psychopath.

_You foolish child._

If true love was the most powerful magic for good in the world, it stood to reason that, gone bad, it was also the most powerful magic for unimaginable terror.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something strange. The lights overhead were starting to flicker and buzz. Hook's monitors made eerie shrilling noises, mechanic fibrilliations of protest, as they went on and off, spiking and flatlining. He grunted in pain, and she was struck by a horrible flashback of the night when the wraith had come for Regina, when even one fell creature had emerged from the netherworld to menace Storybrooke. What had happened to her and Mary Margaret and everyone and –

"Emma," the pirate said. "Emma, love, _no."_

"For once, Miss Swan. . . he's right." Gold still stood motionless as everything else around him came undone, as papers began to fly through the hospital room and glass shattered somewhere in the hallway, as the lights doused and the wind began to rise. "You'd better take cover. The true storm is coming."


	17. Marry The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Nobody is more surprised by this than me, but my muse assaulted me and kept me up late when I really really should have done other things tonight. This fast of an update isn't going to be a pattern, but here you go. ENJOY THE PAIN.)

Three hundred years was, by anyone's measure, a bloody long time. Especially when, in fact, it had been even longer. As noted, arithmetic was not Killian Jones' strong suit, but he'd been twenty-eight when he met Milah, thirty-two when she was killed and when he sailed down the whirlpool to Neverland, and then the almost three centuries he'd spent there – a reckoning he'd only worked out when he returned to the Enchanted Forest and got a nasty shock. It hadn't _felt_ like three hundred years, but that was Neverland for you. Then there was the twenty-eight years he'd spent frozen, trapped on that little island which Cora shielded from the curse – which, again, hadn't felt like that, or maybe it was just that he was so good at wasting unearthly amounts of time in pursuit of vengeance that he didn't notice. Thus, totting up the thirty-two years of his natural life, plus his three hundred years in Neverland, plus twenty-eight years waiting for the Swan girl to get to Storybrooke, he was in fact closer to four hundred years old than three.

Accordingly, Killian had faced more than his share of sticky situations. The infamous confrontation that had given him his _nom de plume_ topped the list, of course, but there had been others, such as the Tortuga incident that he had quite pointedly reminded Smee of; the bugger had attempted to slip off the _Jolly Roger_ and join the crew of some up-and-comer named Barbossa, who had recently mutinied himself into command of his own ship and was promising abundant gold, women, and more gold and women. (It was lucky for Smee that he'd bungled that one as badly as he had, since Barbossa and his minions had somehow ended up soundly cursed, and Killian had enough bloody curses to deal with.) He'd considered kicking the recreant off _his_ ship after that betrayal, but Smee was popular with the crew, potentially because he made such a splendid scapegoat for their own indiscretions, and Killian had been persuaded to let him stay. (Besides, a penitent Smee had then procured valuable items faster than a dwarf could shit, so Killian was convinced of the financial aptitude of this decision.)

All of this was to say, therefore, was that if anyone could be trusted to gauge the all-round horribleness of a situation, Captain Killian "Hook" Jones was your man. (Your man for a number of other useful things as well, but never mind that.) And this one was, in his professional estimation, even more horrible than most. When his hospital room went to hell in a handbasket, he could do nothing but watch. He almost tore the handcuff off the bed trying to get up, but an unholy blaze of pain burned through his ribs and rendered him flat on his back, gasping.

Although Killian had been intimidated by running water when he first came to Storybrooke, he had had time to get used to most of this world's eccentricities by now. But the shrilling of the machines and boxes surrounding him, pumping their esoteric poisons into his veins through their tangled tubing, the flickering lamps and the distant crashes of breaking things, the strange noises and bitter scents. . . he was bloody terrified, and since there was currently no one else present to see, he didn't bother disguising it. He lay stiff, too frightened to bat an eyelash, as the contraptions beeped and screamed and howled like a demon was coming through. Which, to judge from the commotion, one might be.

Killian strained to hear any sound of Emma from beyond the door. She had scarpered after Rumplestiltskin the instant he'd left the room, and it was a bloody miracle that she'd arrived in time to save him in the first place. He didn't even know why he'd shouted for her, much less expected her to hear or answer or any of it, but in that moment, when it would have been the easiest thing to die, he somehow, for some reason, didn't want to.

All right. There was no bloody mystery. It wasn't a somehow. He knew damn well what it was, and it was only now he was finally owning up to it. But in the middle of his long-sought vengeance for Milah, he had told himself that while he could enjoyably _flirt_ with beautiful blonde arse-kickers all he wanted, going further was absolutely off the table. He certainly hadn't been celibate for those three hundred years without her. He was a man and a pirate, and hence was not accustomed to living a chaste and virtuous life. But that was just crudely physical; he rarely even bothered to ask the woman's name. Yet when he crawled out from under that rubble, playing the role of cowardly blacksmith, and set eyes on Emma bloody Swan. . .

Killian had never intended for what had happened with Milah to happen. In fact, he'd half hoped that Rumplestiltskin would be brave enough to fight, prove he was a suitable husband, and take her off his ship. He'd allowed her to come with him in the first place because he was intrigued by the salt and sass she'd shown in the tavern, and he always had a weakness for brassy women. But he fully expected that he would have a few romps in the hay with her, tell her a few tall tales about seafaring to whet her appetite, and then bundle her unceremoniously ashore in the next no-account little pisspot of a town they docked in, never to see her again. Yet within hours of coming aboard, she was already ordering his crew around like she was born to it, and she was so eager for him in bed that it didn't even feel like a conquest.

As totally ruled by his heart as Killian was, very often to the detriment of his head, and as desperate as he was for a woman to love _him,_ he'd fallen hard and fast within that same short amount of time. Milah was his partner in the truest sense of the word. He'd taught her how to handle a sword and reef a sail and drink anyone under the table and cheat a cheat at cards and stab a man in the kidney so he dropped like a stone. She'd been part mother and part lover and part best friend to him, the lonely lost boy. No wonder he'd needed her so much.

Emma was not Milah. But she was here. And he didn't want her to be Milah. He wanted her to be Emma. He wanted her. Wanted her for good.

He couldn't. He shouldn't. The last, the _last_ thing he should do was go this way with another woman who the Dark One clearly had an eye on cutting down to size. Cora had let slip that she couldn't take Emma's heart, but Cora, no matter how bad she was (and that was damned well bad enough) was still an eternal second fiddle to Rumplestiltskin, her teacher and master. Just because she couldn't do something, didn't mean he couldn't.

But after seeing Emma face off with the crocodile like that. . . after seeing her arm, after this. . . if something else didn't come up and make another attempt at his miserable tatty life. . .

Killian lay in a fretful haze for what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes. He was hurting too badly to move, even without the handcuff impeding him, and the strange screaming contraptions had desisted to supply him with whatever was stopping the pain. The tempest in his room had finally tapered off, so apparently he wasn't about to be sucked down another portal, but things were still making a bloody racket and flashing lights and unfamiliar symbols at him, so he could quite easily be mistaken about such conjectures. He reached out crossly and swatted at them with his stump, but only succeeded in knocking them over, adding to the mess.

Now the tubes were yanking on him, needles straining in his flesh, and the pain was so bad he was seeing stars. Killian grunted and whimpered, squirming on the bed, roaring in frustration as he jerked at the handcuff one more time, but whoever had fastened it had known what they were about. He was twisted in half, panting and moaning, a circumstance which would have been far more pleasurable if a woman was involved. As it was –

That, of course, was when the door opened.

\----------

The pirate looked a dozen different kinds of miserable, but intact. That was the first thing that struck her as she stepped in, feeling numb and lightheaded and sick and desperate to get this over with and run. She couldn't take what this was going to do to her, but facts were facts.

"Oh, Hook," she said in a voice part disdain and part sympathy, taking in the ruin of his hospital bed – much of which it looked as if he himself was responsible for. _"What_ did you do?"

He turned an agonized blue gaze up to her. "Get me out of here, love." He reached for her with his free arm, that queerly shortened stump without a hand. The pain and confusion and fear in his voice tore at her heart.

Emma swallowed and glanced away. Moving to the bed, she stood at the foot of it, maintaining a reserved distance instead of sitting on it as she had earlier, waiting for him to wake up – what had she been thinking? She meant to tell him what she and Gold had agreed upon in the conversation outside in the hall, but what she did was to reach out inadvertently and smooth his hair out of his bruised, battered face.

He reached up and pressed his wrist hard against her fingers, as he'd reached for her when she knelt down next to him at the site of the crash. This time, however, he didn't even have a hand to do it with, and she flinched as if he'd hit her. Pulling away, she bent down and began to pick up the fallen monitors, mechanically putting his room back in order.

"Emma," he said softly. "Love, look at me. What's wrong?"

She concentrated on replacing his IV stand, eyed up a display, wondered if a simple reboot would stop its insistent pinging. She probably shouldn't be touching expensive medical equipment, but the noise was going to drive both of them mental. So she did, hoping she hadn't just terminated something vital.

" _Emma,"_ he repeated, forcefully enough that she had to look back at him. "What is it?"

"I. . . Hook, just. . . you know something happened. Out there. And I need to go help deal with it. It's. . . partly my fault. So. . ."

"Yes," he said shortly. "I heard. I was in this bloody room when the crocodile was berating you for leaving that portal open, after all. Please, for the love of the gods. Get me out of here, I can't stand it. I'm not meant for this place."

"Where are you meant for, then?" She began to tidy his pillows, fussing like an old biddy with a favorite cat, straightening out the Medusa's knot of tangled tubes. "Besides, you're hurt, you can barely stand up. What use are you to me now?"

He looked up at her, and their eyes locked. Soft as a breath against her skin, he said, "Love, you know we make a good team. I could help you. The giant, remember the giant? There's plenty more I could tell you about Cora. Join me. Against her, against Rumplestiltskin. . . why not? Both of us, together. Side by side, for the rest of our lives. We'd be bloody brilliant."

Emma felt her own heart, in that moment, stop. "Are you. . ." She had never heard a man say anything remotely close to what she thought he had just proposed, literally, and it scared her witless. "Hook. . . what are you. . . did you just ask me to. . ."

"Why not?" he said. Almost shyly, as if he was terrified she was going to shut him down, turn away, walk out of the door and let that be that. "Emma, I'm _tired_ of pussyfooting about it. For better or for worse, we've been brutally, bloodily honest with each other, and I want to – "

"Hook. Hook, no. I don't know what you think we are, or what we have, but we. . don't. We don't even know each other, and you – "

"But we do, sweetheart," he said, almost pleading. "Don't tell me you don't feel the same. I know you do. Please. Stay with me." He reached out for her again.

"I. . . Hook. No. I. . . came back in to tell you something, in fact."

The look of utter intentness on his face, as if he was looking through her eyes into the back of her head, into the shadowy walls of her soul, almost broke her heart. "What?"

"I'm. . . sorry. But I'm done with you."

That took a moment to register. In fact, she couldn't tell if it did. He just remained blank, staring at her with slightly parted lips, as if in the immediate aftermath of a blow to the stomach. Then he said, "Come again?"

"You heard me. Look, you aren't stupid. You can see that I've already risked everything and everyone in my life, for the sake of trying to protect you. Because I don't think it's fair that you should die like this, so – "

" _Fair?"_ he roared, so loudly that she flinched. He tried to sit up, then fell flat, seething, gasping in short jerking punches that must have been absolute murder on his ribs. " _Fair?_ You're going to stand there and tell me to my face, to my bloody _face, love,_ that you're doing all this because you don't think it would be _fair?"_

"Stop. Hook, just stop. I've. . . had a talk with Gold. The netherworld is a huge threat to every one of us, and if I'm so focused on you all the time, I'm not going to be able to fight back and actually be the sheriff. Gold says that there's already strange magic here, we have an outsider in the hospital as well who could expose us and destroy our lives a second time, and everything in my life is already a total fucking mess. He's right. Magic comes with a price. And I. . . I broke my deal with him. So now the bill is coming due."

"You had a _talk_ with him." The rage in his voice was withering. It was certainly Captain Hook that stared up at her with slitted, maddened eyes, not Killian Jones, the man he'd been around her until she clicked that cuff over his wrist. She'd been seeing flashes of it again, here, but now she didn't think she ever would again. "You. Had a talk. _With him."_

"Yes, all right?" Her own temper sparked to life. "You should know better than anyone what a bad enemy he makes. He basically threatened flat out to kill me, to kill my parents, to kill my son, everyone I love. Maybe that's a fine way for you to live, since you don't have anyone you care about, but I can't do it. And if you took his wife, or she came with you. . . the details don't matter. The point is, she left her son behind, and I'm not doing that. I'm not her."

"No," he breathed. "No. You bloody fucking aren't. Try just a little bit more, _darling._ I don't think you poured enough salt in the wound the first time."

Emma took a step back. "This is the deal," she said, almost inaudibly. "I'm going to help Gold fight against whatever's coming through that netherworld portal. We agree on literally nothing else, but we're not letting this place be torn apart by whatever Cora's bringing here. He says that's what happened, by the way. That she found it, and that she can go through it without dying like the rest of us, because she doesn't have a heart. In return, he's not going to kill you. . . and I'm not going to see you again. I'm. . . sorry. That's just. What has to happen."

"Does it?" When he smirked at her, he looked like a sadistic madman. She had to restrain the urge to bolt from the room.

"If you think I'm helping you kill Gold, you're out of your mind. It goes both ways. I don't let him kill you, I don't let you kill him."

"Then you, my love, are standing in the way of the one thing I've stayed alive for three centuries for. It would be far better for everyone if you got out of it."

"Vengeance isn't justice, Hook! It's not going to bring her back!" Emma's voice cracked. "Look, I know I'm a shitty savior, but I'm _trying_ right now, you _don't fucking understand_ what I'm trying to do and how hard this is for me to even. . . if this is what you're going to be like, then it's my _choice_ to be finished with you. I can't handle you like this – "

"Because you're frightened?" The withering edge in his voice could have stripped skin from bone. "Is that what? Oh, do you want the ruddy coward who left you, the one who helped Gold track me down? I did meet him, you know! _At the point of my bloody sword!_ Neal _Cassady?"_

Emma felt her face go bloodless. She jerked back her hand as if to hit him, but forced it back down with an unendurable effort. "No," she said, speaking in terse, clipped tones to disguise the gaping hole those words had blown in her stomach. "No, I do not want Neal Cassady. Yes, I am fucking _terrified_ of you right now, as any sane human being would be, because of what three centuries of hatred has done to you. No, I am not going to apologize for who I am and what I've done and the choices I've made, and the fact that this is goodbye. I've done everything I can. I'm sorry." She turned. "I'm leaving."

"Swan!"

"What part of _I'm done with you_ don't you understand?" She could barely keep it together. She was about to sob her eyes out or be very sick, and she couldn't stand for him to see it.

" _Swan –_ " He ripped at the handcuff. "You're going to leave me chained up again?"

"Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, and this time, I have no regrets. You're a madman, Hook. You're a liability to the town and to my family, and I'm done defending you. If you were serious, if you meant one word of what you said earlier, you'll think long and fucking hard before you ever dare to look me in the face again."

The silence was horrible. She stood with her back to him, silently dying.

"Emma." His voice had turned softer again, desperate. "Emma, wait. Emma, no, no. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. You risked your life for me, I know it, you risked everything. You're brave and beautiful and brilliant and there's no other woman I've met, _ever_ , who's like you. I saw you take that blast from Gold, you can resist him if you have to – "

" _That's_ what you're going with?" She laughed, on the hysterical edge of a sob. "You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"Love, please, _please, please._ I haven't been anyone but Hook for three hundred years. I'm rubbish at this sort of thing now, I'm a bloody wreck and a horrible human and I know it, I know it. I want to change, I want – have I told you a lie? Have I told you one? Let me out of here, I'm yours, I'll _belong_ to you. I don't ever want to be anyone else's."

"You belong to revenge, Killian. That's who you belong to. And since thirty seconds ago you were trying to convince me to join up with you to help you kill Gold, I can't trust a word you say." Emma knew now what it felt like, to have your heart ripped out of your chest and crushed to powder. "I'm dysfunctional and frightened and solitary and I have a lot of my own issues, but I do have a lot more pride than that. I'm not going down with you. I. . . I'm sorry."

She wished, almost, that he would cry after her. That he would say something, that he would curse her, curse her family, curse her descendants and ancestors a dozen generations on each side. Anything of that would have been preferable to his stunned, wordless silence.

She took one step, another, another. She was still upright, she still breathed, she still functioned. Surely, then, she was not unbearably damaged. The only way to know was to look, and she could not bear to. And then, as the tears began to fall, as they turned to full-out heaving sobs so that she covered her face, so that she almost staggered, she squared her shoulders one last time and walked out of his life.

\----------

David and Mary Margaret found their daughter later, curled up in a corner of the hospital waiting room with her hair coming down in clumps and her eye makeup sheeted in ruins over her corpse-white face. They approached tentatively, worried that she would shove them away again, but she barely even seemed to notice. She just sat, staring at nothing. Then she uncurled, put her feet down, and said in a voice like death, "I have to find Henry."

"Sweetheart?" Mary Margaret had never seen Emma look like this before. "What's. . . please, Emma, can you tell us what's going on?"

"Henry ran out of the hospital earlier, because he. . ." Emma shook with another constrained sob. "Look, I don't know any other way to say this. His. . . his dad is here. In Storybrooke. His name is Neal. Neal Cassady."

David and Mary Margaret exchanged utterly thunderstruck glances. They had, after all, briefly schemed to recruit Neal into their plans to find Emma, having no idea whatsoever who he actually was. Just knowing that he was a stranger and thus able to cross the boundary, but this. . .

"He's. . . here?" It was plain from David's voice that his first reaction to this development was to find the man and clock him into next month. "The guy who. . ."

"Knocked me up, framed me for his crime, and abandoned me in jail, yes. That's him." Emma swiped a hand across her cheeks, further smearing her mascara. She'd never told them the gruesome details before, and their communal shocked reaction was even worse. "He's all yours."

David looked like he was about to take her up on that offer on the instant, but Emma kept going. "There's more," she warned them, and launched into a brutal summation of everything that had happened since they'd seen her last. The tornado, Davy Jones' Locker, the fact that it was now an uncontrolled netherworld portal through which Cora was even more plentifully equipped to ruin their lives, the fact that there was a captive giant on the _Jolly Roger,_ that Henry had run out of the hospital after learning of her lie in the worst possible way, and that she was now working with Gold to fight back against the swarm of beasties on their way into Storybrooke. "Don't argue," she finished, gritting her teeth. "Don't tell me that I don't have to do this. Just find my son, see if you can locate the invisible pirate ship and get the giant out before Cora comes back for him, and anything else. I don't know."

"Emma. . ." Mary Margaret reached out for her. Tears shone on her cheeks. "Emma, you're in so much pain right now. Please let us in. Please."

"I – have – to – go." Emma got to her feet, jerkily as an automaton. "I need to find Gold. I need to make sure nobody breathed a word to Greg Mendel about what the fuck just happened in this hospital – tell him it was a power surge, tell him we have weird Hz infrasound levels, tell him anything. Make sure Whale isn't drunk off his ass and do whatever else you have to do. You're Snow White and Prince Charming. Fucking fix it."

"Emma." Mary Margaret took a step after her. "In the Enchanted Forest – remember what I said? We do this together, or not at all. We've made mistakes. We admit it, and we're sorry. And I know you're upset, but I am _not_ letting you regress and isolate yourself right now."

Emma stood still, shivers wracking through her body to her toes. "All right," she said at last, barely recognizing her own voice. "All right."

Her mother let out a long, shaking breath, but Emma didn't know what to say. She only knew that she had to, that she couldn't let herself do the exact thing she had just confronted Hook over, and let her personal demons turn her into a haunted, vindictive, tortured, wandering soul, alone and loveless and driven by rage. To confuse vengeance with justice. She had to remember the fact that even now, she was going out to meet Gold and take his side.

"We'll see you soon?" David called after her. "Emma, wherever you go, whatever you have to do. . . we're with you. It runs in the family. We _will_ find you and. . . we love you."

 _Yes, you are._ Just then, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run to him, to throw her arms around him, to bury her face in his chest and to let her daddy make it better. But that was for the little girl who had died when her first foster father told her, at the age of five, that they were having their own kids and sending her back to the home and he was sorry, but they weren't going to be there anymore. Yet it was in her memory, holding flowers over her grave, that Emma turned back to her real father and said only two words.

"I know."

\----------

The sun was coming up in a bloated, bloodstained wrack of cloud, like a pile of corpses after a battle, as Cora and Regina drove back into town. Their work, for the moment, was done. Cora had already sent into the netherworld for her first request, and it should be arriving shortly. Regina hated flying monkeys, having had plenty of bad experiences with them before, but they were singularly effective at sowing confusion, discord, and chaos, and she needed some of that. Then, she told herself, she'd see to it that they were packed back to Oz, that the people of Storybrooke saw their mayor acting heroically and defending the town from its otherworldly menaces. They didn't need to know that she'd had anything to do with them in the first place.

They were almost into downtown, having taken the back route for obvious reasons, when Regina noticed a lone dark figure lurching along the side of the road, staggering like a cripple. She felt a subterranean shock of recognition, and glanced at her mother with a start.

"Stop the carriage," Cora said, and gestured aristocratically.

Regina hit the brakes on the Mercedes, and coasted to a halt. She shot a glance at the cage on her mother's lap; after they'd gotten what they needed out of Smee, Cora had turned him back into a rat, and they were going to drop him off on the _Jolly Roger_ as well, their all-purpose hiding place at the moment. But as she looked out at what she saw instead, she suddenly wondered if that plan was going to be altogether changed.

Cora leaned out the window. "My dear Captain," she purred. "Do you need a lift?"

The pirate stared back at them with a wild expression. He looked, to put it frankly, like sheer hell. He was dressed in his usual black leather ensemble, but it was so tattered and bloody and torn that it looked like he'd stolen it back from somewhere after being forcibly stripped out of it. The broken handcuff dangling on his wrist, the deep bloody gouge in the skin showing how hard he'd pulled to rip it out of whatever it had been attached to, told a strange and sordid tale as well, and his breath sounded cracked and splintered. Regina's magic filled in the rest. He was badly injured, on the run, half dead, and entirely insane.

Hook kept staring at them. Those blue eyes were a glazed mask, a depthless pit. He said nothing.

"Come on, dear," Cora urged. "You aren't at all in good estate right now, are you? They can't heal you with their provincial medicine, but I can. Just step inside here with us, and I'll make it better. I'll take the pain away. You still need me, just like Regina does. And then you can come with us while we search for the one thing that _can_ kill the Dark One."

"The knife." It was the first words Hook had spoken. He swayed on the spot.

Cora smiled. "That's right." She held out her hand. "Don't worry. I've changed for my daughter's sake. I'm not holding a grudge."

Hook barked a growling, grotesque laugh. He plainly believed this no more than he believed in – well, flying monkeys, a belief that was about to be challenged before the day was out. But then he smiled back, white teeth bared in an agonized leer, and stepped forward, reaching for the car door. "You know," he rasped, and opened it, collapsing in. "I think I'll take that offer."


	18. The Devil You Don't

She was entitled to change her clothes at least. She hadn’t slept, she’d barely eaten, she was staggering on her feet, she was heartbroken and furious and scared, but at least she could wipe the ruined makeup off her cheeks, scoff a few cups of industrial-strength coffee, and knock around her apartment like a shiftless ghost, noting abstractly that the chucklehead Hook had left tied up in here had in fact managed to free himself and escape. She wondered where he’d scuttled off to. Out of instinct, she checked the place she hid the emergency cash, and was relieved to find it was still there. At least the guy hadn’t bothered to stuff his pockets before he booked it.

Emma went into the bathroom, stared at her spectral face, and rubbed her fingers beneath the dark circles, her skin fine and translucent as bruises. She effected terse repairs from her cosmetics kit, ran her hands through her unwashed hair, and knotted it into a sloppy braid in futile hopes of disguising it. Then she went to her dresser, pulled out clean clothes, and stripped off her old, dirty, sooty ones, the ones that smelled too much like the Locker. Too much like Hook. She couldn’t stand the reminder, couldn’t give Gold any reason to think she was backing out of this one too. Or else. . .

She threw the dirty clothes in the hamper, grabbed a bottle of the five-hour energy stuff out of the fridge, and tossed it down like a shot, gagging. If that plus the three cups of coffee couldn’t keep her awake until she could get some proper sleep, well then, they were all just fucked and Gold could shut the netherworld portal hisdamnself. They hadn’t been eaten by the Thing from the Black Lagoon yet, so she figured there was time.

Emma took a final look at herself in the mirror, wished vainly for her vanished gun, and took a step toward the door. Precisely as she did so, it echoed with a sharp rap.

She sighed and opened it. “I’m sure there was no stalking involved in this at all, was there?”

“I prefer to call it punctuality, Miss Swan.” Gold made a gesture that was only slightly sarcastic. “If you’ll come with me. There are a few things we need to fetch from my shop before we head out to the woods.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but could think of nothing to say as she trailed after the pawnbroker down the stairs and out into the lurid dawn, where his old black Cadillac was idling at the curb – he’d left the keys in and the engine running because apparently there was nobody crazy enough in town to steal Rumplestiltskin’s wheels. She ducked into the passenger seat and buckled up as Gold executed a perfect three-point turn and roared off the other way.

Conversation, to say the least, was minimal. A few minutes later, having rolled straight through the one Main Street stoplight, they pulled into the back alley by the pawn shop and growled to a stop. But as Emma opened her door and started to get out, she caught sight of a dark figure standing underneath the swinging sign, staring up at it, transfixed.

“Hold on,” she hissed at Gold. “There’s someone there.”

He didn’t appear concerned at this information. Just threw her a textbook “bitch please” shrug and opened his own door, limping around the square hood of the car with her, again, tagging nervously behind. Without her gun, she was going to have to throw some judo moves or something, and Gold could maybe stab them with his –

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh,” she said dully. “You.”

“Yeah.” Neal Cassady turned toward them, hands shoved belligerently in his jeans pockets. There was an entirely different aspect to his face than had been there just hours before, when he’d surprised her in the hospital and Henry had run away from her. So much, in fact, that it was like looking at a different person, like a veil had peeled away. “I remembered.”

“I’m – sorry?” Emma did not want to have this conversation, in no world did she want to be having this conversation, especially with Gold breathing down her neck.

“I remembered,” Neal said, almost in a whisper. “Awhile ago, I said there was some other reason I came to Storybrooke, but I couldn’t remember what. Like there was another part of me lurking somewhere. . . and I didn’t know it. Well, it’s back now. I remembered why I forgot. I spent a few hundred years in Neverland, that can take your memories, and when I was spit up here, I was only plain old Neal. But I’m not, am I?”

“I. . .” Emma could only stare at him. It was like having a dog stand on its hind legs and start reciting Shakespeare, the cognitive dissonance was so extreme. Neal, _Neal,_ knew about _Neverland?_ He’d been there for a few hundred _years?_ He’d forgotten, or he’d remembered –

“I’m sorry,” Gold said curtly. “This is all very fascinating. May I help you?”

“You!” Neal shoved past Emma and faced Gold down, fists clenched. _“You!_ You haven’t changed at all, have you? I _helped_ you, I _helped_ you use magic and track down the pirate, you’re still the same, the _same!_ You did this somehow, this is all your fault! I can’t believe I fell for it!”

“I beg your pardon?” Gold was all smooth, cold ice. “ _You_ are the one who’s standing in front of _my_ shop, therefore I can’t be blamed for whatever situation you have put yourself in. And at the moment, you are causing a dangerous distraction. Kindly get out of the way.”

“Yes, that’s what you’ve always thought, haven’t you?” Neal actually looked like he was preparing to take a swing at the slight pawnbroker, something that Emma was going to be honor-bound to prevent. “A distraction from your magic, from everything that wasn’t about you getting more and more power and hurting more and more people. Isn’t that right. . . _Papa?”_

Both Gold and Emma blanched. It was hard to say which of them was more floored. Gold’s entire expression changed in an instant; he went from looking angry to looking stunned. He reached out a shaking hand. “Bae. . . Baelfire? My boy? My. . . my son?”

“What the. . .” Emma could only stare wildly back and forth between them. “What the – what the _fuck_ is this. . . this Star Warsshit?”

Neither of the men paid any attention to her. Neal continued to look as if he was about to have a coronary. “Don’t you dare call me that. Don’t you _dare.”_

“Bae?” Gold repeated, so desperately that Emma actually almost felt bad for him. “You came here? You found me?”

“I wouldn’t have come here in a thousand years if I’d remembered!” Neal ripped away from him and wheeled on Emma. “You! Why didn’t you tell me? All this time you were part of this, part of _magic –_ I said I was sorry, I said I wanted to make it up to you, but you lied to me and betrayed _me_ far more than I ever did you! You’re one of _them_ too!”

“I. . . I what?” She stared at him, horrified. “What are you talking about? What did I do? What do you mean, I lied to – I never knew, I don’t even know what you’re – ”

“This is your fault.” Neal pointed a finger in her face. “You took my son away and you let me think that _I_ was the one who’d set you up. But it wasn’t. It was you, and – ”

“Son?” Gold cried. He turned a wild expression to Emma. “Are you meaning to tell me that this – that him – that he’s – ”

She could see nothing to be gained by denying it. “Yes,” she whispered. “This is Henry’s father.”

“But that means. . .” Gold looked even more distressed for some reason. “Henry was the one who brought you to Storybrooke and Henry was the one who. . .”

“I met him in the hospital, yeah,” Neal interrupted. “I went looking for him after _you_ – ” this to Emma – “told me who he was. That’s how I ended up here.”

“So he. . . led me to you.” Gold was still staring at Neal. “The boy. Henry.”

“If you want to call it that, yes. And with this shit, with both of you – ”

“You told me!” Emma interrupted, her voice rising shrilly. “You said you just _listened_ to what August told you, that you let me go to prison because _Pinocchio_ told you to, you just shrugged and said that’s fate? And now you’re here telling _me_ that it’s _my_ fault I – ”

“I thought you were a victim too!” Neal hissed. “I thought you were caught up in all this stuff and that was just how it was! If I’d known who you really were, I wouldn’t have come near you! I never thought you _chose_ all this!”

“Maybe because I didn’t! Because you never let me make it!”

“This is not my fault.” Neal heaved a breath. “This is not my fucking fault and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you saying it is. I’m sorry I ever came here, I’m sorry I ever thought it was worth my time. I’m going back to New York and you never have to see me again. But you better get ready to talk to my lawyer, because I know a really good one. Her name’s Tamara, we’ve been seeing each other. We’re going to have a little talk about who is going to take care of Henry, and who’s going to be in his life.”

“How. . . _dare you.”_ Emma was speechless. “You just expect – ”

“I expect to be part of my son’s life? Yeah, I do. Because I’m not doing what this guy here did.” Neal shot a look of blackest loathing at Gold. “Get used to it.”

Actual tears were rolling down Gold’s face. Emma had never seen him so completely disarmed. “Bae. . . my boy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I can make it up to you, I _will_ make it up to you, I’ll never leave you again. I can turn back the clock, I can use magic for good. I can make you fourteen again, restore all the time we lost.”

“Are you insane? Lose all my memories and become a teenager again, by _magic?_ When I’ve just found out about my son and that he’s here and I want to be his father? You really think that’s what I want? Congratulations. You haven’t changed at all.”

“Bae. . .” Gold held out both hands, imploring for an embrace. “Let me make it better. You want a relationship with your son. . . and so do I. More than ever.”

“It’s too late for that, Papa.” Neal turned away, staring back up at the pawnshop’s sign. It was getting lighter and lighter; morning had come after all. “You should have tried that a lot earlier. I never got closure. You don’t get it either. You’re still using magic, you’re still hurting people. And it’s your fault that I didn’t remember. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Bae.” Gold took another desperate step. “There’s no greater pain than regret.”

“Try abandonment.”

“Like you abandoned me?” Emma bit out.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is. And I’m done with this, with you, Papa. Go on. Goodbye.” Neal moved around them both and started to walk away.

“Bae – _no!_ Wait, wait! I won’t use magic if that’s what you want! I won’t!”

Emma shot a horrified look at Gold. “But the portal. . . you said we had to close the portal! That we couldn’t just leave it open to – ”

Gold was paying absolutely no heed to her. All of his attention was transfixed on his estranged son, standing a few feet away from them with his back turned. “Bae,” he begged. “Please. Give me a chance. I know I don’t deserve it. One more chance. Just one.”

“Just one, huh?” Neal finally turned around. “No magic? At all?”

“Wait,” Emma interrupted desperately. “Gold, you can’t back out on our deal now. We made it, remember? A deal. You – you wouldn’t hurt Hook, and I’d help you use magic to close the portal. You said the entire town depended on it. You promised. You _promised!”_

Gold hesitated, then turned back to her. “So I did, Miss Swan,” he said, with great precision. “So did you.”

“Oh.” Emma felt as if the bottom of her stomach was dropping out from her, racing toward the ground like a meteor. “No, you are not. You are not using the fact that I – that I broke my earlier bargain with you to get out of this one.”

“Am I not?” Gold smiled twistedly. “ _Contra_ you and your parents, dearie, I’ve only ever broken one deal, for one person. As a result of that, I lost him. If I have to break another to get him back. . . then that’s what I intend to do.”

“Let’s think about this,” Emma said desperately. She glanced to Neal, praying, for some absurd reason, for backup. “You’re just going to let him do this? Break his word again? That’s supposed to show you he’s different now?”

Neal stood with his head cocked, silent. Then he fired at Gold, “Why does that pirate have Mama’s name tattooed on his arm?”

Gold went even paler. “What?”

“I saw it a while ago. He showed it to me. I didn’t recognize it or him, because I didn’t remember. He said he knew how it felt to lose the woman you loved.”

Gold’s mouth opened and shut like a codfish.

“So why is that?” Neal demanded furiously. “Hook! I know him, you know. I met him in Neverland. I’m not going to say we were friends, because we weren’t. He was the pirate captain and I was a Lost Boy, more lost than you could ever know. Every night seeing you letting go of me. Every night. And you told me that Mama was dead. “You told me that the pirate killed her. _Why does he have her name tattooed on his arm?”_

“He’s a pirate,” Gold said weakly. “Should I know why?”

“Yes, I think you should. What happened to her? Is she dead? Is she still around somewhere, caged up in there – in the shop? Where?”

“She – she is dead, Bae,” Gold whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Neal let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, almost a hyena bark. “You still didn’t answer the question. Still dodging. Still running. How did she die? _Tell me!_ How did she die?”

“You killed her,” Emma said to Gold, suddenly certain of it. Everything that Hook had said right before he got hit by the car, in the hospital where he’d explicitly said that Gold had murdered his lover, the fact that she herself had seen that tattoo on the pirate’s arm when they’d climbed the beanstalk, and she’d worked out that his hand wasn’t the only thing he’d lost at his crocodile’s attack. “ _You_ killed your own wife.”

Gold looked as if she’d just swung something heavy into his face. “I had no choice.”

 _“No choice?”_ Emma repeated, dumbstruck. “That’s what you’re going with? Yeah, I can really see the family resemblance between you two. You’re not very big on giving your women choices, are you? Couple of fucking white knights. I don’t think I’ve ever been disgusted with one person as much as I am right now with both of you.”

Neither Neal nor Gold answered her. It was impossible to tell if they’d even heard her.

“Now,” Emma continued, “it actually doesn’t matter if I think you’re disgusting. This town, this place is in danger, you said so yourself, and despite _everything,_ I want to stick to this deal.” She stared Gold down. “I have plenty more I can tell your son. Like what happened last year, when Henry went under the sleeping curse. About when you sent me to retrieve the vial of true love from the dragon. Do you want me to tell him _that?”_

“What sleeping curse?” Neal said loudly.

“No – ” Gold began, fast enough for Emma to knew that she had him. “I don’t – ”

“All right then. Then let’s go fix that portal.”

“You guys suit yourself.” Neal shook his head. “I’m getting the hell out of here. And when you see me again, I promise it _will_ be with my lawyer.”

“I’ll go with you, then.” Gold’s attention remained surgically welded to his son.

“What makes you think I have any interest in that?”

“You’ll have to kill me to stop me from following you, Bae,” Gold said simply.

For a moment it looked as if Neal was tempted, but he spun away again. “Yeah, that’s a joke. There’s only one thing that can kill you, Papa, and you’ve probably squirreled it away somewhere where no one will ever find it.”

“We can go to it, if you like.” Gold tried to move closer. “I’ll show you where it is. I’ll give it to you, Bae. You won’t misuse it, I know you won’t. Just keep it for me, keep it safe.”

“I don’t want that magic. I don’t want that. . . _thing_ that made you into who you are.”

“Please, my boy.” Gold’s tears were falling freely by now. “ _Please.”_

The silence remained stretched, fraught, horrible. Then at last Neal let out an angry curse, threw up his hands, and turned around.

“All right,” he said tightly. “You have your one chance. Let’s go get the fucking dagger.”

\----------

David and Mary Margaret weren’t exactly certain where to find their missing grandson, but they had more than a hunch of where to start. And when they arrived downtown, their instincts were stronger than ever. They parked Leroy’s truck and the three of them piled out, heading up the stairs to Archie Hopper’s office.

They’d expected to hear voices, to discover that Henry had sought the psychiatrist’s ear, but the office was strangely silent – and strangely dark. Before they even opened the door, they knew that something was wrong.

David put a hand on his sword, and Mary Margaret tensely strung her bow; it would be impractical to use in these close quarters, but she wasn’t going in unarmed. Then when their repeated shouts went unanswered, Leroy unslung his dwarf axe and broke the door down.

The office was a mess. File cabinets had been overturned, papers strewn everywhere, chairs tipped and glass smashed. What was more, Archie himself was nowhere in evidence.

“Oh my. . .” Mary Margaret pressed a hand to her mouth. She turned to her husband, panicked. “Henry wasn’t _here_ when this happened, was he? He didn’t. . .”

“I don’t know.” David stared grimly at the chaos. “But this didn’t just happen on its own. After Regina’s house was burned. . . didn’t she take the apartment next door?”

Mary Margaret’s face went as white as, well, snow. “Oh my God. She did.”

“That. . . that _witch!”_ Awaiting no further confirmation, Leroy wheeled around and barged back down the corridor, where they could hear him enthusiastically having at the apartment door. To prevent the property values plummeting even further, David and Mary Margaret galloped after him, just in time to find that he had already achieved entrance. And what they saw this time was, somehow, even worse.

“Oh no.” Mary Margaret stared at the seared grooves in the back of the door, the unmistakable stain of magic reeking in their nostrils. “Oh no.”

“Get Ruby.” David was already turning, grabbing Leroy by the shirt collar. “There’s got to be something of Henry’s in here, stuff Regina brought over from the house. Get Ruby and maybe she can smell him.”

The dwarf didn’t need telling twice; he was already out the door, of which relatively little was left thanks to him. Mary Margaret was on her hands and knees, as if she herself could pick up an echo of Henry’s presence. She couldn’t, but luckily it was a world land speed record for how fast Leroy returned, a panting Ruby in tow.

“Here.” David tossed the she-wolf a boy’s argyle sweater. “This is Henry’s. Can you get a scent out of it?”

Ruby took a deep whiff. “It’s pretty old, but I’ll do my best. Yes. . . he’s been here recently, he. . . I thought he was at the hospital with you.”

“Something happened,” Mary Margaret said, trotting to keep up as Ruby hustled down the stairs, sweater pressed to her nose. “Don’t ask us for any more details, we don’t know them, but apparently. . . his father is here in Storybrooke.”

 _“Henry’s_ father?” Ruby took a break from her bloodhounding long enough to look shocked. “Didn’t Emma say he was dead?”

“Well, she did tell me that that was a lie, and. . .” Mary Margaret’s face had assumed a fierce, protective cast; she wasn’t going to let anyone talk shit about her baby girl, especially behind her back. “It doesn’t matter, but apparently there was a confrontation, Henry learned the truth, and. . . ran.”

“Oh no.” Ruby resumed sniffing. “We have to find him.”

“Our thoughts exactly. Especially with Cora running around out there, and, I’m afraid to say, looks like Regina as well.” David scowled. “Did anyone really think she’d changed? Her worry about not letting her mother come here lasted how long, ten minutes? Is that some kind of record, or do you think – ”

“Charming, this is _not_ the time!” Mary Margaret put on an extra burst of speed; Ruby had definitely caught a scent, and was accordingly picking the pace. They were hurrying through the streets, attracting stares from some of Storybrooke’s early risers, and definitely heading out toward. . .

. . . the harbor.

“There!” Leroy yelled, pointing. “There!”

David and Mary Margaret shouldered past Ruby, who gave them a slightly miffed look as if to ask if her contribution was going to go unnoticed, but broke into a run to catch up with the Charmings and their grandson, who was on hands and knees at the very edge of the dock and apparently groping at thin air. David reached him first and grabbed him by the small shoulders, pulling him into a rough embrace. “Geez, kid! You scared the crap out of us!”

“I’m sorry, Gramps.” Henry had the decency to look abashed. “But it has to be here. It has to be here somewhere!”

“Wha. . .?”

“The ship!” Henry insisted, wiggling loose from his grandfather’s arms and darting back to the edge of the dock, dangerously close to falling in. “The invisible pirate ship, you were on it and you said that Captain Hook took you out here and then you had to jump off before it went over the town line, and it has to be here somewhere! I was at my mom’s apartment and it’s a big mess and Archie’s office is too, something happened and it has to have been Cora, and she came over on the pirate ship, so I thought that if I could find – ”

David and Mary Margaret stared at each other, then blinked, mildly stunned at this display of deductive reasoning even by their precocious grandson – especially since they themselves hadn’t thought of it, preoccupied as they were with finding him and bringing him to safety. Mary Margaret turned to her husband. “You were the one out here with Emma. How did you get onto the ship that time?”

“The _pirate –_ ” David’s fists clenched, in apparent anticipation of punching the bastard whenever he got hold of him again – “suggested that I take a flying leap, but I’m not going to be trying that in absence of direct evidence. There are no seagulls here, there’s nothing funny with the waves – I don’t think it’s here right now. They’ve moved it.”

“Well then,” Henry insisted. “How do we find it?”

David looked completely stumped, but seemed to recognize that this was not appropriate for Prince Charming’s response to the situation. He was just opening his mouth, apparently to try out some solution or other, when a massive shadow fell over them.

“Holy _shit!”_ Leroy yelled. “Snow! Snow!”

Mary Margaret spun around, gaped, and then sprang into action, stringing her bow, snatching an arrow from her quiver, and getting off a shot, at too close range, at the monstrosity bulldozing in. It was a monkey, a monkey with _wings,_ not a cute little zoo gibbon but at least the size of a full-grown mountain gorilla, with an ugly, twisted, leathery face and black wings at least twelve feet across, beating the air so hard that the draft knocked Leroy backwards. It reached out and swooped Henry up, as he wailed and kicked. “Gram! Gram! GRAM!”

“Don’t move, Henry!” Mary Margaret screamed, slapping another arrow onto the string of her bow and loosing it; the shaft whistled inches past her grandson’s left ear, hit the monkey’s arm, and bounced off with a clang as if it had struck plate armor. The monkey was already gaining altitude; if it dropped Henry, it was going to be quite a fall. But David was sprinting after it, arms outstretched in anticipation of catching his grandson.

Mary Margaret put two arrows on her bow and shot again, this time at the monkey’s vulnerable underside, but it adroitly dodged, with an unnerving intelligence far beyond your average simian. With this to confirm what she had already, horribly known, she almost missed her last chance to get off a volley, which spun harmlessly away and clattered to the dock. The monkey was rising above the treetops, the small, struggling figure of Henry still clutched against its chest. In moments, it was out of sight.

“No!” David roared uselessly. “No!”

“What in the – _hell_ was that thing?” Ruby gasped. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Flying monkey,” Mary Margaret said tersely. “From Oz. I’m sure of it.”

“But how would it have gotten _here?”_

“Who cares?!” David was already sprinting toward downtown. “Follow that monkey!”

\----------

Killian Jones was having a dream he was not sorry to be interrupted from when the door slammed, jolting him back into equally painful reality. He was still sprawled in the back of Regina’s black automobile, drawing shallow, sore breaths that felt like burning wooden spikes in the ribs. He shifted, grimaced, and rasped, “I wasn’t expecting the bloody queen, but at least one of you lovely ladies could – ”

No answer. They weren’t even paying attention to him, they had in fact just exited the automobile, which was parked at the end of some dirt pull-out in the woods. As he could see through the window, both Cora and Regina were standing in wait of – _something,_ something large and dark and hideous that was just swooping through the trees, holding something in its arms. Something small and kicking that looked remarkably like a small boy.

 _Oi gods, these bloody peasants._ Killian groaned, swore out loud since he was the only one to hear it, and fumbled at the latch, managing to open it without extraordinary effort (well, everything was extraordinary effort right now, but bugger that). He staggered out of the automobile and stared at the special delivery, which looked to be some sort of. . . monkey?

“Henry!” Regina cried, rushing forward to scoop up whatever the monkey had just deposited at her feet, like an owl spitting up the bones of a mouse. “Henry!”

 _Henry?_ Killian stiffened. The tousled small boy, still looking shocked and angry, as well he might after being kidnapped by an airborne primate, was that. . . ?

“Mom!” the boy cried, pushing back from Regina as she tried to hug him again. “Are you crazy? What are you doing? That’s – that’s – ”

“I’m your grandmamma, sweetheart.” Cora moved forward, smiling. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. I’m sorry about the methods, but you’re here with us now. We’ll keep you safe. It’s time you were reunited with your mother. Your _real_ mother.”

“You – ” Henry backed away from the witch as if she had the plague. “No, no, no, I know who you are. Mom, how could you listen to her? She’s trying to manipulate you and you’re going to listen to it and then – ”

“No, Henry, no,” Regina pleaded. “We’ve made up. We’re going to be a real family now, I told you, I promised no one would hurt you.”

“You just had a flying _monkey_ steal me!” Henry kept backing. “You’re still using magic to hurt people, you haven’t changed! Where’s Archie? What happened at his office?”

“Archie’s – safe. He’s fine, I didn’t hurt him, I swear!” Regina tried to catch the boy again. But as Henry’s eyes were flicking around frantically in search of an ally, they landed on the pirate, standing by the car. His mouth fell open, and the expression on his face reminded Killian so strongly of the lad’s mother that it hurt.

“Captain Hook!” Henry exclaimed, distracted and delighted enough by the novelty of meeting the feared pirate to forget about his fear for a moment. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Killian coughed, hurting his ribs again. “Aye, lad. Not much of one at the moment.” He held up his hookless stump; he hadn’t been able to spare the time to find it before breaking out of the hospital, afraid that he would be caught. The broken handcuff was still dangling from his other wrist, more painfully than ever. “You must have heard of me too?”

“Yes. You’re not in the book, but of course I know you.” Henry cocked his head. “You look different than I was expecting.”

“Oh? And what were you expecting?”

“More hair, I think.” Henry looked critical. “And you had a red jacket.”

“In _what_ did I have a red jacket?” Bloody hell, how did the boy know about him? Had Emma mentioned him? He didn’t recall owning a red jacket, though that red vest. . .

“In the movies, usually.”

“What in damnation are movies?”

“Oh, right, you don’t know.” Henry looked guilty. “I’m sorry. Well, we’ll watch them sometime and then you’ll see who Hook is and he doesn’t really look like you, but – ”

“Henry, that’s enough.” Regina moved to take her son proprietarily in hand. “You don’t need to be talking to him. We’re back together, and there are just some things I need to do with your grandmother to make sure we stay safe. So – ”

“She’s _not_ my grandmother.”

“I’ll think you’ll find I am, sweetheart,” Cora cooed. It couldn’t have sounded more poisonous if she’d coated it in sugar and left it in an enchanted gingerbread house.

“No, you’re not. Snow’s my gram! You’re evil and you want to hurt people and – ”

Cora sighed, raised a hand, and waved it gently. A fine purple mist floated from her fingers and engulfed Henry’s head. He swayed on the spot, then fell face-first into the leaves.

“Mother!” Regina gasped. “What did you – ”

“Nothing to worry about, dear. Just a small spell to calm him down. We couldn’t have him shouting, now could we? See, he’s perfectly fine, only asleep. There’s still so much magic I need to teach you. Now, we do still need to find the dagger.”

Regina hesitated, then turned back to her mother. Cora smiled, reaching out to stroke her hair and pull her daughter into a tender embrace, and Killian watched as Regina’s momentary flash of anger disappeared. But as the hellbitches hugged, he paused, shot a glance at Henry, then limped over to him, knelt, and held his hand over the lad’s mouth.

A warm mist touched his skin, confirming that Henry was in fact alive; he hadn’t put it past Cora to have done something far worse. He told himself that he was being a damn fool. Emma had made it plain that she wasn’t going to have anything further to do with him, and if he grabbed Henry now and scarpered. . . well, it would throw a fine monkey wrench in the proceedings to say the least (although he was quite sure he had seen the literal definition of monkey wrench earlier). They’d all come after him. . . he’d dictate the terms. . .

“Well, sweetie?” Cora asked her daughter. “Where should we start looking?”

“Gold must have told someone,” Regina said. “Only one person. And now, thanks to our _friend_ there, she can’t tell us even if we gave her a truth spell.”

“Belle.” Cora smiled. “Very impressive, dear.”

Regina glowed at her mother’s approval. “Thank you. Belle can’t tell us, but I _do_ know where Gold likes to hide things. Where he hid the true love potion. The library.”

“Well then.” Cora made an aristocratic gesture at the automobile. “Let’s get going.”

Killian hesitated one last time, glancing down at the boy in the leaves. Then with a grunt of pain, he slid his arms under the small, warm body, lifted him up against his chest, and silently carried Henry to the waiting car.

\----------

“There,” Gold said, pointing. “It’s there.”

Neal and Emma glanced at him, at each other, just as quickly away, and then at the unremarkable patch of ground Gold was indicating, which looked as if it had been dug up fairly recently. It didn’t look like the most probable of places to conceal a magic weapon of awesome power, but then, he certainly wasn’t going to be stupid enough to keep it in his shop and the townsfolk, for obvious reasons, were leery of going anywhere near the boundary line in the woods. Emma had been unable to repress the sensation, however, that they weren’t alone, that the _things_ Gold had mentioned coming from the netherworld were already very present. It felt like insects crawling up her spine. She would have given anything for her gun.

“Well, then,” Neal mumbled after a moment, going to his knees and starting to paw gingerly at the dirt. “Guess let’s see what we have here, huh?”

Gold and Emma watched him in tense, anticipative silence. Or rather, Gold was so consumed with watching him that a Tunguska event could have occurred at that very moment, and he wouldn’t have turned a hair. Emma, however, was still nervous, and too on edge to devote the same sort of fire-starting concentration. She was looking around for any sign of the netherworld approaching, some sort of black mist or whatever, and –

She looked up, and a wrenching shock lacerated her all the way to the backbone.

Standing in the forest on the far side, hand pressed to his chest, leaning against a tree for support – _Hook._ It was, it was _him_ , and while he didn’t appear to have seen them yet, it could only be a matter of moments until he did. She didn’t know how he had followed them out here, but if Gold saw him – if _Neal_ saw him, for Christ’s sake – she didn’t know if the deal was still valid or if –

Emma shot a surreptitious glance at the men. Neal was continuing to dig, and Gold remained completely intent on him. She took a step, and neither of them looked up. She took another, and they still didn’t. She took a third, turned, and started to run.

She’d gotten good at making unobtrusive exits when she was in the life of chasing down perps on the run, and it was a skill that served her well now. She dodged through the clutching trees, turned, and reached him just as he staggered and started to fall.

She didn’t tell herself to catch him, like a superhero catching the damsel as she swooned away in distress. It just happened.

He went tense as a harpstring, twisted around, saw her, and stared. “You.”

“You!” Emma hissed. She helped him back to his feet, but he didn’t let go of her, his hand closed around her arm as she steadied him. “What are you doing here? Are you insane?”

“I – I had to warn you. I had to find you.” His chest heaved with a gasping, agonized breath. “Cora has your son. I don’t know what she’s going to do with him, but it can’t be good. You – ” He pulled her back, further into the trees. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Let go of me. We can’t be seen together. If Gold does see you, he’s going to break our deal and kill you, and I. . .” Emma was mortified to realize how close to tears she was. “You took a stupid, stupid risk. I can’t _believe_ you.”

“Hey, lass.” He grinned. “It’s me.”

Her lips trembled. She wanted nothing more than to rush forward and fling herself into his arms and hold onto him, to tell him that she was going to save him come hell or high water, that it wouldn’t hurt this badly if there was anything she could do about it, but. . . no, no, no. She had to get him to go, not make him stay. “You have to get out of here. Gold and his – his son are right down there, they are literally a hundred feet away, and if they see you – ”

“His. . . son?” The pirate stared at her. “Baelfire?”

“I – I guess so. It. . .” No, she couldn’t tell him that it was Neal, not after their ugly confrontation in his room. “They’re looking for something, and they’ll probably be distracted long enough if you just get out of here and – ”

“Looking for something?” Hook turned back abruptly. The expression in his eyes had changed. Almost like it was a different person staring out, almost like. . . “The dagger?”

“I – don’t know,” Emma lied, suddenly discomfited, taking a step away. She couldn’t tell him about this, she couldn’t give him the means to kill Gold, and suffer the ungodly consequences. “You should – ”

“It’s all right, lass.” He staggered toward her again, holding out his hand. “Come here. Come to me. It’s all right.”

Emma hesitated, shooting an agonized glance at the small figures of Gold and Neal, just visible through the screen of trees. Neal seemed to have found something, and she could feel Hook’s eyes trained on it like magnets. “Promise me. Hook, please promise me that. . .”

“What, lass?” he murmured. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, drawing her closer, the warmth of him, the strength, the solidness – even after everything, all the brokenness, the pain – almost overwhelming. “Promise you what?”

“That you – ” Emma began.

But she never finished the sentence.

Because then, as she was leaning into him, as she was letting him hold her despite every nerve in her body screaming at her otherwise – because she should have _listened to her goddamn instincts –_ she saw the flash of metal, and felt the searing pain as the hook buried in her chest.

As she staggered, as she fell to her knees, as she felt the metal scraping into her heart, she stared up into his eyes, aghast and horrified, and realized –

It wasn’t Hook.

It was Cora.


	19. Queen Takes Knight

The ground ran out half a second before David ran off the ground. He skidded to a halt, arms windmilling, as stones and roots crumbled out from beneath his feet and clattered down to the coast some thirty feet below, the bluff eaten out by the crashing, restless waves. If he'd fallen down that, there was no telling who he'd think he was when he hit the bottom.

Mary Margaret grabbed her husband around the waist and jerked him back. Ruby slammed on the brakes to avoid running into them, but Leroy wasn't quite as quick on the uptake, and had to veer off and barrel into a tree, rather than the Charmings. He was only on his back for an instant, then popped up like a jack-in-the-box. The entire moment would have been black comedy in other circumstances, but all of them were too focused on their mission to bat an eyelash.

"Henry," Ruby said grimly, sniffing the air. "He was here. With that – with that monkey thing. And there are other scents as well. The ones that were in the apartment."

"Don't tell us," David said. "Cora and Regina."

"Yes." The she-wolf's lips were thin. "As if we didn't know. They have Henry, and I can't tell which direction they've taken him." She indicated the crushed leaves, the tire marks through the mud. "Regina's car was here. . . they drove, I could try following that scent. . ."

"The ship," Leroy reminded them. "Emma said we had to find the pirate ship, that there was a giant on it, and I don't know about you, but I don't want that witch unleashing a giant on us. Shouldn't we also – "

"The ship can wait!" David snapped. "We don't even know where it is, much less if we can reach it without crossing the town line. And then – "

"Look," Leroy interrupted, pointing out to sea. "There."

David stepped up and squinted, shading his eyes with his hand, trying to put aside the panic and focus. At first he couldn't tell what the dwarf was on about, then he did. About a thousand yards down the coast, and maybe a few hundred out, the waves were acting strangely, flattened and frozen. Seagulls were intently whirring around what appeared to be nothing at all, some of them settling in to roost, and if they were all very quiet, they could just make out the sound of wood creaking among the crash of incoming breakers. The _Jolly Roger_ was there, it had to be. Tantalizingly close, and harrowingly far.

"We'll keep it in mind," David said, turning around. "For now, I'd rather we track Henry before the damn flying monkey comes back. They didn't bring that thing through, however the hell they did, for a one-time use."

"It must be the netherworld," Mary Margaret interjected, pulling the strap of her bow tighter. "Like Emma told us. It's open, and it's pretty much an interworldly freeway."

"That's what I'm afraid of." David put both hands on his hips. "Let's move it."

Following Ruby, the Charmings and Leroy retraced their steps back into town, feeling a bit like an old slapstick in which they were running first one direction and then in the other with some unspecified menace on their heels. Ruby lost the scent of Regina's car a few times, but picked it up again, and finally came to a halt on the sidewalk outside the town library. "It's strong right here, but it goes on as well. I don't smell _them_ here. I think they stopped, but didn't stay."

"Should we take a look?" David glanced at his wife. "Scope it out just in case?"

"No." Mary Margaret frowned. "Something's wrong, David. I don't know what, but it isn't just Henry, and it isn't here. Remember that dream I had? I knew something was wrong then, I knew it, and that must have been when Emma fell into the tornado. We didn't realize it was her since Belle was in her bed, but last time I ignored my instincts, it was a horrible mistake. We have to go find them."

"But look." Leroy indicated the scratch marks on the front door. "Somebody's broken into the library. Can't just leave that without a backward glance."

"How about you check it out, then?" Ruby suggested. "I have to come with David and Mary Margaret, to track the scent. Will you be all right alone?"

Leroy looked deeply insulted. "Is my name Grumpy the Dwarf?!" He gripped his pickax tighter. "I'm gonna beat the crap out of anything I find in there."

David was unsure if they should split up, but the clock was ticking and they didn't have time for indecision. He nodded brusquely at Leroy, then grabbed Mary Margaret and Ruby and bundled them both off down Main Street, following the waning trail. He didn't have the same instinct as his wife, but something felt distinctly wrong to him too. _A disturbance in the Force,_ his cursed memory quipped to him. A very definite one. Black and choking and oozing, like an open toxic waste pit. For a moment, horrifyingly, he did lose sight of who he actually was, was just David Nolan and David Nolan alone. If that was the netherworld, it was even worse than they thought.

"There!" Ruby screamed. "Look!"

David's eyes jerked open, and sense returned to him in a flood. They were standing on the state highway leading out of Storybrooke, dangerously close to the town line. But Ruby was pointing down into the trees, where it was possible to see two figures, one digging in the dirt and one standing over him. The latter, unmistakable even in profile, was Gold. And the former –

"Isn't that – " David turned to Ruby, staring. "Neal Cassady?"

" _Neal,"_ Mary Margaret hissed, sounding every inch like the fierce warrior princess she was. In that word, it was possible to hear all her guilt and rage and pain, her memory of the baby girl who had been torn from her arms while she was still bleeding from labor, the girl whose first smile she had never seen, the girl whose heart she couldn't stop from breaking, the girl who had to grow up thinking she had been abandoned, twice, in the worst possible way. Because of her – and because of him.

"Neal," Mary Margaret repeated again, almost calmly. "I am going to _kill_ him."

And with that, she started to run.

David and Ruby exchanged a horrorstruck glance, looked at her, at each other again, and then flung themselves down the hill after her. Snow had a sizable head start and she was fueled by bestial rage, so both of them – even Ruby with her werewolf speed, had she chosen to employ it, which she didn't – had trouble catching up. They pelted headlong through the trees, just in time to see Snow seize an extremely startled Neal by the collar. While he was still demanding to know what was going on, while Gold was shouting at her as well, she drew her fist back and punched him in the nose with all her might.

Neal toppled backward, dropping whatever had been in his hand – an unremarkable bundle wrapped in brown paper. Snow was already crawling on top of him, continuing to punch him. At least until David reached her, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her off.

"Thanks, man," Neal gasped, looking stunned. "I don't even know what I did, is she crazy or – "

"She didn't have the wrong idea!" And with that, David wheeled around and punched Neal again, just as he was attempting to get to his feet. Neal crashed back down with a yelp.

"Are you both mad?" Gold roared. His hand was upraised, a fireball crackling between his fingers. "How dare you treat my son like that?"

"S – _son?"_ David's circuits fried. He took a step back, staring at the whimpering specimen of humanity sprawled in the leaves at his feet. Then he looked wildly at Gold. " _That's_ your son?"

"You said we had to go out of town to look for him!" Mary Margaret cried.

"I didn't know he was already here!" Gold lowered his hand, but didn't extinguish the fireball. The three of them eyed each other evilly; there was even less love lost between them after their aborted deal to find Emma. "And after what I've done to find him, it's my duty to warn you that anyone who tries to hurt him is not going to live very long."

"If you're _threatening_ me, Rumplestiltskin, after what _your_ son did to _my_ daughter, then it's my duty to warn _you_ that anyone who tries to – "

At that moment, as David and Gold were getting into each other's faces, and Mary Margaret appeared undecided whether to run interference or to go punch Neal again, a scream ripped through the woods. Ruby's scream.

"Ruby?" David broke away from his adversary. "Ruby!"

"Over there!" Mary Margaret pointed to where they could see Ruby on her hands and knees, next to another body on the ground. "Oh my God – is that – "

Neal and Gold exchanged a look. They both seemed on the verge of saying something, then decided against it. Squinting upslope, David could see a tangle of long blonde hair on the ground, at the same time his wife did, and –

" _Emma!"_ Mary Margaret's scream was painful to hear, cracking and breaking in her throat. Then she was running again, plunging upslope, skidding in the leaves, as David barreled after her. They reached Ruby at the same time and fell to their knees, staring down at their daughter insensible in the mud. A silver hook was wedged so deep in her chest that it had almost vanished.

"No." Mary Margaret began to sob in earnest as she grasped hold of it, trying to work it free. But she couldn't budge it, and her efforts only made more blood bubble up from the wound, soaking Emma's black wool coat a dark, arterial crimson. _"No!"_

"Still regretting not letting me kill that pirate?" Gold's voice was a lethal purr as he limped up after them, Neal hot on his heels. "After this?"

"Emma!" Neal jostled Ruby out of the way, and knelt down next to her as well, a tricky feat considering he was simultaneously trying to maintain his distance from the Charmings. "Fuck! I _knew_ Hook would do something like this!"

"I told you, Bae," Gold pleaded. "He's a killer, he'll stop at – "

"Shut up, Papa," Neal said furiously. "You don't get to talk about anyone being a killer, not after what she told me about what you did to Mama. Can you help her or not?"

Gold's eyes flicked to David and Mary Margaret. "What makes you think she needs it?"

"The _hook_ in her chest might be a goddamn giveaway, you son of a bitch!" David boiled to his feet and seized a fistful of Gold's immaculately pressed purple shirt. "I don't care what's between us. She's the mother of your grandson. Do something!"

Gold flinched at the mention of Henry. He extricated himself from the prince's grasp, then said curtly, "I'll have to take her back to my shop. Bring her."

David hoisted Emma's upper half in his arms, glaring off Neal when he tried to help. Mary Margaret took her legs, and between them, the Charmings carried their bleeding, unconscious daughter up to the road, up to where Gold's black Cadillac stood waiting.

\--------

Hurt.

A bloody lot of it.

He bloody shouldn't have been surprised in even the bloody least degree.

Killian still hadn't worked up the ability to move after the force of the magical blast Cora had used to throw him into the shelves. He was surprised his ribs weren't sticking out of his skin, as he sprawled on the cold library floor and thought to himself just how bloody much he hated books and how, if he got half a chance, he would gladly burn this sodding place to the ground with all its contents. But it had served its purpose. Aye. Enough.

He'd found the map, all right. Told them where the dagger was – or so they thought. Regina had hared off on whatever wild goose chase he'd sent her on, gullible bloody bitch. When he'd done a fine job of acting furious and betrayed, Cora had told him sweetly that it was nothing personal, but she had to leave him here. She had something she needed to do, a little call to pay on a certain fetching blonde savior. Then she removed a familiar item from her pocket, and held it up to show him.

His hook.

At that, Killian's pretend fury had become very real, and he lunged at her like a wild beast. She threw him back, unloading another cascade of thrice-fucking-damned books onto his head and employing him to mop the floor, and made a languid gesture. Fetters sprang into existence, locking him to the shelf. She smiled again at the mad desperation on his face, and told him that it was plain he was never going to succeed at their task. The one little job he'd had. Just _one,_ and he couldn't even manage that. He was without doubt the worst pirate she had ever heard of.

She'd be sure to give Emma a kiss from him.

And then, as he roared at her, she vanished in purple smoke.

Killian hadn't felt such devouring, consuming insanity since he was tied to a mast and watching the crocodile rip out Milah's heart, then holding her in his arms as she fell back, whispered, "I love you," and died. He started to gasp, heaving, wincing in agony each time his struggles threw his ribs further out of whack, feeling broken edges grind together nauseatingly, ripping and wrenching at the fetters, sobbing and swearing like a lunatic. But he couldn't get them free. Cora was going to bloody kill her, kill Emma, and he was chained in a sodding bloody fucking hell of a library and couldn't do a damned fucking thing about it.

At last, the pain overwhelmed him, and he sank into a dazed half-consciousness. Some time passed. He had no idea how much. Then he heard, to his shock, the library door grinding open, and heavy footfalls entering.

 _They're back. Back to finish me off._ Killian struggled to think of some memorable last words, but profanities were all that came to mind. "Come on, you poxy back-alley whore," he grated out, tasting blood in his throat. "Come and try to kill me." He spat, weakly.

"You!" It wasn't Regina or Cora that answered. Instead, Killian saw the bloody _dwarf_ marching in with his pickax at port-arms, clearly in expectation of having to promptly use it – then stopping dead and staring. It was fair to say that the bastard had not anticipated his foe to be a half-dead pirate, spread-eagled on the floor due to being chained to the romance section.

Grumpy recovered. _"Hook."_

"Oh, well spotted." Blood dribbled down Killian's chin. "Wit like that, they should call you Brainy."

"Shut up." Grumpy took a better grip on his ax, and Killian considered that it was likely not a wise idea to antagonize him while the dwarf had sharp objects. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking a bloody vacation, what's it look like?"

"Where are the witches?"

Killian tried to move again, and almost threw up. He swallowed down the taste of bile, eyes watering. "I don't know."

"Where's Henry?"

" _Does it look like I fucking know?"_ He was almost screaming. It hurt more.

Grumpy threw him an absolutely exquisite specimen of what his Swan girl, with her gift for turning a memorable phrase, would have called "bitchface." After a moment he said, "It looks like you got your arse kicked, is what it looks like."

"Congratulations. You'll be trying out for the sodding genius club in a moment." Killian was struggling to look as if he wasn't about to pass out again, since that was how he felt. "As much as I'd love to swap scintillating bon mots with you, you'd better get the buggery out of here and find Emma. Cora's going to kill her."

That, to say the least, Grumpy had not expected. _"What?"_

"They're looking for the Dark One's dagger, all right?" Killian growled. "I tricked Regina, but Cora's after Emma. Don't stand there and gape at me like a bloody halfwit, even if you're a quarterwit at best and will have to aspire vainly to halfwit status for the rest of your miserable life. Get out and do something about it. I'm – detained."

"The hell do you. . ." Brainy was blinking like a concussed hippopotamus. "What are you trying to pull on me, pirate?"

" _Pirate._ " Killian laughed. The word sounded almost funny to him; it had been ringing in his ears longer than he could remember. She'd thrown it in his teeth back on the beanstalk, and he'd been sarcastic, as always. _Oh, the pirate thing._ Never trust a pirate. Time was when he'd be the first to inform you cheerily that that was a wise idea. Back when he didn't mind whose back he stabbed. But that was all before, bloody _before,_ and his own idiocy had been what gotten him here, forced to serve as a spectator while it all went to hell. He laughed, kept on laughing, and then his voice broke and he started to sob, sounding like a madman even to himself.

There was a sudden silence overhead. But he didn't look up. He just lay there, praying for Grumpy to put the bloody ax through his brains and end his misery. "Come on," he rasped again. "What are you waiting for? Kill me."

The dwarf didn't. Instead, after one more moment, he glared ferociously at Hook as if to warn him not to try anything (what a bloody joke) and then knelt down and started to fiddle with the fetters. They were magically locked, of course, but even dark magic was no match for a dwarf on a mission, and a few moments later, Killian heard the click as they opened.

"Don't make me regret this," Grumpy warned, holding out a hand. "Get up."

Killian stared at him blankly.

"Up!" Grumpy seized him by the scruff of the neck and hauled, managing to assemble the pirate into a more or less vertical state. Killian started to lurch forward like a badly jointed marionette, gauging his prospects for escape and deciding that they were bloody slim indeed. It felt like he was taking a red-hot spear through the ribs with every step. But he'd kill Cora if it was the last thing he did, and –

Just as Killian and Grumpy were making it to the door of the library, something whizzed past on the road outside. An automobile, Killian realized, and not just any automobile, but the crocodile's, the one that had been present at the town line the night of the confrontation. And to judge from Grumpy's reaction, he'd seen something in it to startle him badly.

"No bloody hurry," Killian croaked, when the dwarf continued to stand there like a lump. "I feel so good I may dance a bloody waltz in a moment."

"Shut up," Grumpy said again, but distractedly, frowning down the street in the direction of the vanished mechanical monster. "They were in it."

"Who?" Gods, his head hurt. And the rest of him.

"Snow and Charming."

"Do I give half a squealing shit about them?"

"You might," Grumpy said grimly. "If I tell you they were looking for Emma."

\--------

"Set her there." Gold gestured at the striped chaise crammed into the back room of his shop, teetering mazes of junk walled into the cupboards on either side. David and Mary Margaret shuffled through it and gently laid their daughter down. Her face was the color of bad milk, and her lips were going blue. When Mary Margaret lifted Emma's coat away, it revealed that her white shirt had turned a dark, visceral red, sticking to her skin. The blood was pooling on her chest, dripping down her shoulder and her side.

Gold regarded it without blinking, then tapped his cane. "Ah. Yes."

"She's bleeding to death," David snapped. "We don't have time for whatever games you're about to play."

"No games. Now, I'm the last man who would be caught dead speaking a good word about our pirate, but there's something about this that doesn't quite add up. Somebody was trying to _take_ Emma's heart, but only succeeded in breaking it. Because she was vulnerable. She wasn't strong, she was off her guard, she was already. . . hurt by something. Or someone."

David glared at Neal, slouching in the doorway. "I have no idea who that could be."

Neal raised both hands. "I didn't do anything to her, all right? I want to help you make her better just as much."

"Yes, but she was in a pretty bad state when we saw her at the hospital." Mary Margaret moved to stand behind her husband. "I'd say she qualified as heartbroken then."

"How about you quit blaming me for something that's done and over, and try to save your daughter's life?" Neal took a step forward. "Huh?"

"Sweetheart, let me punch him again," David muttered. "Please."

"Much as I want to, he's right. That's _not_ going to help us." Mary Margaret turned back to Gold. "What do you mean?"

"Her heart is broken," Gold repeated. "Literally. She was in a fragile emotional state when she met me, something must have happened with that pirate when she stopped me from killing him, and then she has. . . a. . . history with my son." He glanced at Neal, who stonily looked away. "So when the hook went in, it still couldn't manage to rip her heart out, but it's damaged it. Quite. . . extensively. Physically, to match the emotional damage."

"And now she's dying," Mary Margaret said tightly.

"And now she's dying," Gold agreed. "A broken heart. Very. . . lethal."

"Unless?"

"I haven't done this in centuries."

"How about you give it a try."

"Very well." Gold sat down on the chaise next to Emma. "Here's the trick. If we can get her heart the rest of the way out, she'll live. There _is_ magic that can heal a heart, but only one."

"True love." It was Mary Margaret who spoke, reflexively.

"Hold on a _fucking_ second." That was David. "Did you seriously just tell me that if we want to save our daughter's life, we have to rip her heart out?"

"Rip? That was your word, not mine. I said we had to remove it. Or we can leave it in her chest and let her bleed to death. As you may be aware, people can live quite well without their hearts. It will make her better, for the time being. Until we can mend it and put it back."

"And you just so happen to be the only one here who can take hearts."

"If I've dedicated my life to mastering a different skill than you, Your Highness, that's just apples and oranges, isn't it?" Gold took hold of the hook. "On three, then. One. . . two. . ."

And as the last number was leaving his lips, they heard the door open.

\--------

"You," the crocodile said, the only word that broke the silence. " _You."_

"Me." Killian had to do his bloody best not to trip over his own feet as he stalked forward, leather coattails swirling atmospherically. "Surprised?"

The miserable reptile got to his feet, his eyes never leaving the pirate's. "Bae," he said. "Mr. Nolan. Kindly remove that from my shop, or there's nothing I can do for Miss Swan."

" _You were going to rip out her heart!"_ Killian roared, causing everyone present to flinch. "Do you think I'm _blind,_ you maggot? Do you think I'm bloody stupid? Do you think I'm going to stand here and _watch you do it?_ Was it you, then? Put Cora up to stealing my hook, so you could be the one to have the victory?"

"Get out," Neal bloody Cassady warned – had the crocodile called him _Bae?_ As in _Baelfire?_ Gods, no, not that, anything but that. "You better get out or else."

"Shut your shit-belching pie hole, you arse-munching cockfungus." Killian shoved the bastard aside as Neal tried to get in his face, and reached Emma's side with the next step. He closed his fingers around his hook, laid his stump gently on her shoulder to brace himself, and pulled as carefully and slowly as he could, easing the metal from where it was trapped deep inside her. It came free with a slurp, wet and red. Her vitiated chest pulsed blood.

The Charmings stared at each other, then at him. Finally, David croaked, "Where's Leroy?"

"Oh, you mean the dwarf genius? Might be I knocked him out and left him in the alley. What would you do if I had?"

"Stop!" Mary Margaret pleaded. "Will you all just _stop!_ Emma is _dying_ here while you're having your power plays! And if – " she shot a nervous glance at the pirate – "doing _that_ is the only way to save her, then we have to."

"There's something else to consider," the crocodile said thoughtfully. "If we do take her heart out, she can travel in the netherworld freely."

"What the – "

"Cora can go into it and bring whatever she wants here to Storybrooke. We can't, because we have our hearts. But if Emma goes without hers. . . for a short while, say. . ."

"But her magic is connected to her love!" David cried. "How can she love – how can she do magic – how can she be anything she is without her heart?"

"Do you have a – "

Just then, fast as a snake, Killian lunged. It took every scrap of wherewithal he had, but the bastard wasn't looking, and by the time he was, he was in a violent headlock, the pirate jerking him upright as he dug his hook into Baelfire's throat. "Let me uncomplicate the situation. You, crocodile, give me the ability to do whatever needs to be done for Emma, _now._ Otherwise, your miserable little shitstain of a son. . ." He tightened his grip, scraping the sharp steel against Neal's neck so they could be in no doubt of his intentions. He'd never kill the man, much as he wanted to, if only in memory of the boy and the boy's mother. But they didn't have to know that.

Gold's face had frozen. The hate in his eyes boiled at Hook as the standoff continued, two, three, four agonizing moments. Then, as Emma began to convulse on the bed, blood bubbling at her lips, Mary Margaret screamed, _"NOW, GOLD!"_ and he moved.

Looking as if he was being flayed inch by inch, the crocodile jerked up, raised a hand, and slapped it against Killian's. A bluish-purple glow engulfed his skin, then faded, and he didn't waste a second. Fighting his memories every step of the way, he half leapt, half fell across the room, landed next to her, and pressed his hand against her bloodstained breast. There was a hot, searing sensation that he didn't remember from the last time he did this (with a hook, with much less care, to some bloody chit he didn't give a rat's arse about) and then his fingers slipped into her chest.

Killian could feel their eyes boring into him, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered to him but what he was doing, the feeling of her heart, broken and bleeding but still struggling to beat, warm and slick against his skin. It wouldn't have come out if the crocodile just stuck his filthy paws in here and tugged. He had been supposed to do this all along. . . to find a way to remove it, make it a weapon. . . but all he cared now was if he could save her life. They could kill him after, he didn't care. She'd already made plain she wanted nothing to do with him.

For a moment, he couldn't hear any echo of her, and panicked that she'd gone too far. _Emma!_ He called out to her wordlessly, searching for her, wherever she'd crawled, deep into her barrow. He wouldn't take it without her permission. Even if she'd die, she had the right to make that choice.

 _Emma,_ he whispered again. _Love, please. Trust me._

But what if that was a lie?

What if the crocodile was going to kill her anyway?

He'd never forgive himself.

But they both had to take this chance. Together.

A moment, one more. Then he felt something, felt some spark of her, deep in her battered body, releasing. He felt the walls come down, and he felt her give it to him.

Slowly, slowly as if he was holding the most precious thing in the world (he was) Killian eased his hand out of Emma's chest, her heart bumping weakly against his fingers. It was a dull, bruised, washed-out pink, not healthy, vivid red, and the hook wound was plainly visible, a long, ragged scar across the surface. It made him feel something even closer to pure and perfect madness to look at it, to know that Cora had been the one to do this.

"Here." Gold held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"In your bloody _dreams,_ " Killian spat, reminding himself not to instinctively tighten his grip. He kept his fingers curled around it, as lightly, as delicately as he'd held anything in ages.

"You can't keep it," Gold pointed out, with a twisted grin. "Your little deception is going to be discovered, you know, and then both the witches will be after you. Do you really _want_ to have Miss Swan's heart on you when that happens? Do you know how much, how _very_ much Cora would like to have that in her possession? Because if she gets it, we're all done for."

"You will have to cut me down, here and now, if you think you're taking it from me."

"Tempting prospect." Gold's grin widened. "Very tempting."

" _Stop it!"_ Neal bellowed. "You haven't changed at _all_ , Papa!"

Gold jerked, seeming to surface from a reverie. He shook his head, suddenly looking old and scared and tired. "I'm – I'm sorry, Bae. The habit. . . it's deep by now. I just – "

"Try harder." Neal turned away when his father glanced imploringly at him, and moved closer to Hook. Flatly, he said, "I don't like you, you don't like me. We both understand that. But I'm the only one here who's qualified to take care of her heart. I'm getting the hell away from this place, and the crazy bitches can't follow me out of Storybrooke."

"And you think that makes you qualified, _mate?"_ Killian bit out the word. "Take it away and what happens then? Do you think she'll be thrilled to discover that?"

"It doesn't matter what she wants. It matters what's best for her."

Killian gazed at him with something verging on admiration. In a friendly, conversational tone, he advised, "Shut your mouth before I actually do kill you."

"My forbearance is not infinite, pirate," Gold growled. "Watch yourself."

Killian gave him a cold, challenging stare, then got up and limped across the room toward Snow, who was still watching him suspiciously – but with an expression in her eyes that made him think the princess had understood exactly what just happened, and that she had been considerably thrown by it. He held out his hand, and she reached up with both of hers, so he could place her daughter's heart into her cupped palms as delicately as an egg. "Here," he said quietly. "Take care of it, aye?"

"I – I will." Snow glanced up at him then, looking into his eyes. "Hook. You're not a bad man. You don't have to help them, and I don't think you want to. You're a pirate. You know which way the wind is blowing."

"Toward them?" Killian said bitterly, staring down Gold and Neal. "I don't think so. There. I've done what I can. Emma doesn't want to have a damn thing to do with me, and unlike some others present in this room, that's a choice I respect. Now, if I recall, your precious bloody grandson is still missing, and gods know what the witches are getting up to."

"You're going to find them?" Snow stared.

"No." Killian whirled around, jabbing a finger at Gold. _"I'm going to find a way to kill you."_

And with that, he fled.

\--------

Hurt.

A bloody lot of it.

She bloody shouldn't have been surprised in even the least bloody degree.

Emma wasn't awake, exactly, but she was aware of muffled voices pressing in on the darkness, the bottom of the endlessly deep well where she was trapped. Pain stabbed through her intermittently, wet and red and burning. She could hear blood leaving her veins, struggled to cling onto any sort of consciousness, could feel herself falling farther and farther as she scraped and flailed and fought to hang onto it, to pull herself out, to live – but couldn't.

And then she felt someone else inside her. A hand around her heart. There was enough of her old memory remaining to know what this meant, that she was about to die – but there was no excruciating yank, no crushing, no dust. Instead, she felt something strong enough to make her breathe suddenly, a jerking gulp, light shot through her prison. It was gentle, tender, careful, asking her if it was all right, telling her that she could choose to let go or not. That no matter what, he (how did she know it was a he?) wouldn't go further without her permission.

Emma was aware that this must be dying. She didn't want to die.

But it was still her choice.

The voice was in her head. Calling her name. Asking her to try it. Asking her to trust.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she agreed. She let her walls down.

She let him go. Let it go.

And then, it didn't hurt anymore.

\--------

The first thing Emma saw was the ceiling. Which was strange, because she didn't remember there being a ceiling in the woods where Cora had ambushed her. It was a familiar ceiling, however, and it took her a moment of intense, squinted concentration to work it out. It was Gold's ceiling. In Gold's shop.

What the _fuck?_

"Emma?" It was a familiar voice now, a face that floated over hers, pale and drawn with anxiety. "Emma, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," she mumbled. "Yeah. . . I hear you."

"Oh, thank God." The face – it was Mary Margaret, it was her mother – collapsed in relief, and tears welled in her eyes. "How do you feel?"

A whole fuck of a lot better than she'd expected, actually. Sensation was slowly returning to her extremities, and where there had been a burning, driving agony in her chest, there wasn't anymore. "Pretty okay, actually. What the hell happened?"

Nobody – there were apparently more participants in this conversation – seemed inclined to answer. Emma pushed herself upright, wincing, and David and Neal – oh god, what were _they_ doing here? – both offered her a hand. She took David's and ignored Neal's, reaching up instinctively to touch her chest. Something felt off about it.

"What's going on?" she said nervously. "What's the party?"

Nobody wanted to answer that one either. She didn't like this. Gold – oh wow, this really couldn't get worse, could it? – was regarding her intently, fingers steepled under his chin. The silence got thicker and thicker, heavier and heavier.

"Well, Miss Swan," he said at last. "It's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time for you to go into the netherworld."

"You're crazy." Emma still didn't know what was going on, but she liked it less and less each instant. "What was that about how Cora was the only one who could, since she didn't have a – "

"Matters have changed." Gold shrugged. "Not entirely for the worse, I think. I'll still be able to guide you, Miss Swan, but you're the one who has to do this now."

"Do _what?"_

"Go in and bring them out. All of them."

"Oh, no no no no." Emma could feel panic rising in her throat. "One day you're telling me that we have to close the netherworld portal, that it's going to kill all of us if we don't, and the next you want me to jump in for a joyride and make it even _bigger?_ Not to mention that I don't know what happened and I don't like it anyway and – "

"Please, Miss Swan," Gold interrupted. "This is extremely urgent, and everything that we have done to save your life will shortly go in vain unless you trust me. It's too late to worry about closing it. We can't. Cora's already torn it open to kingdom come. You _have_ to go in now and get help. She's already summoning everything you can think of through, and this town is about to become hell on earth. There's one man in particular you need to find. Bring him back here." He was speaking faster and faster. "He stole magic even from me. Him and his thieves."

"Oh God. The last thing we need is _more_ thieves."

"This one's different, believe me."

"And how do I bring him back here, exactly? Through the netherworld? But I thought he can't, that only people without a heart – "

"That, dearie, is the one thing we're all counting on you figuring out."

Emma fought an extremely strong urge to punch him in the nose. "Can you at least tell me if this mystery man I'm after, in some unspecified other world, who I reach by going down the rabbit hole again, who I may or may not be able to bring back without murdering, has a _name?"_

"Of course he does." Gold grinned. "Robin Hood."


End file.
